Thresh
by Vain
Summary: SSHP slash disturbing content. Voldemort can give Severus the one thing Dumbledore will not: an opportunity. What’s a Slytherin to do? Chapters 7:20 postedplease heed the warnings.
1. A Deep Kind of Something

**Thresh  
**- Vain  
06.24.2004

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

**Standard Disclaimer:  
**I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the quotes preceding the chapters come from Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. If you have not read it, take the time and do so. It is an . . . experience.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Voldemort can give Severus the one thing Dumbledore will not: an opportunity. What's a Slytherin to do?

**Warnings: SS/HP slash**, disturbing themes, underaged-ness, violence, mature content, dubious consent, abuse of power over a minor, somnophilia, bondage, improper use of Potions, and some dubious psychological torture.

**Rated: R -** this is the EDITED version; links to the NC-17 version can be found at my profile.

**Notes:** Takes place in the middle of Sixth Year.  
Snape is not a warm, fluffy, insipid sap in this: he is a nasty, sadistic, greasy, arrogant, ego-centric wanker. Welcome to the land of IC.  
This is absolutely, 100 un-related to any of my other fics.  
To facilitate updates, these chapters will be shorter than the chapters in some of my other fics.

This story was originally launched under my secondary pen name, "Hanakai." For convenience's sake, I have decided to streamline my fics under my original pen name, Vain. **_SAME AUTHOR._****_ SAME STORY. DIFFERENT NAME._** As a fic is re-uploaded under my Vain pen name, I will delete it from my Hanakai profile. Eventually, Hanakai will be deleted entirely, so please update your faves and bookmarks to reflect this.

_Thank you_ for all your previous reviews—I saved them all—and I hope you all review again. I'm greedy.

For progress notes on the pen name transition or if you have any questions, please see **my** **Livejournal** (linked both my profiles). I hope this doesn't inconvenience anyone & thank you for your patience.

**Special Thanks** to my betas **Apapazukamori** and **E.E.S.** snugs V

**UTERRLY A GIFT** with much love to **EVELIA** who draws me pretty pictures.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**  
Enjoy!

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Prologue:  
A Deep Kind of Something**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_"What had he to live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy. Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others. _

_And if only fate would have sent him repentanceburning repentance that would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep, that repentance, the awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he would have been glad of it! Tears and agonies would at least have been life. But he did not repent of his crime." _

_Fyodor Dostoevsky  
_Crime and Punishment

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_The key is patience. Sitting. Waiting. Watching. Await the opportune moment and then act. Allow them to thing it's all their idea. The outcome—the final possession—is a reward in and of itself. Just . . . be patient. _

_And plant your seeds where and when you can. We all, after all, must reap everything that we've sown._

  
**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**  


_I_t began as an idea—a simple thought. I watched him in potions class as he licked a bit of the melted chocolate we were using off his fingers. Then he put his pointer finger in his mouth and _sucked_.

I was lost.

I'm sure that there were precursors . . . perhaps I knew what I wanted before I even saw him. Perhaps I decided all those long years ago when the words _"Harry Potter **lived**!"_ were first hissed in whispers on the last day of October. Perhaps I've always known. It is, after all, the best revenge . . . To take that which is your enemy's and make it your own. To turn their strength into your advantage . . . Their joy into their downfall. The idea began to germinate—to fester like a wound in my mind. It would not let me be.

As long as even one Marauder survived, how could I ever be whole? Knowing what they were . . . those supposedly Golden Gryffindors—and they were all standing idly by as those _monsters_ took from me the only safety I'd ever known—how could I do anything less? Potter, Evans, and Pettigrew dead . . . Black in prison . . . the werewolf vanished to no-one-knows-where. Yet it wasn't enough.

Because _he_ was there: the cherry-cheeked, wide eyed scion of those accursed bastards. I saw him at the feast—staring at me curiously with those inhumanly innocent eyes—and I _loathed him_. I wanted to rage. To destroy. To torture him slowly until he begged for death.

This _boy_ who was supposed to be our savior . . . How could they all be so _blind_? He wasn't special or different. Just a near-sighted, knobby-kneed, too-short, wide-eyed child whose apparent ignorance was stupidly perceived as endearing and whose recklessness was misconstrued as bravery.

I had _expectations_! Plans.

Harry Potter was not supposed to be this vapid, insipid pseudo-muggle. He was to be an opponent—his father's son—something I could tear down and destroy. Something that I would feel _accomplished_ in tearing apart bit by bit. He most certainly was _not_ supposed to be this stupid, pretty, fragile flower of a child, underweight and with the faint aftertaste of abuse and misuse. What victory was there in conquering this fey creature?

And so I hated him.

He robbed me of my revenge—of my _plans_. There was nothing to be done with this child. He was of no use to me.

And then the "incidents" began. Quirrel. The Chamber of Secrets. And this pretty little man-child who fought basilisks and Dark Lords was so easily riled . . . Only I could make his cheeks flush like that. Only _I_ could make him so angry. Those green eyes flashed just for me. But it was not enough. I wanted more than that. I wanted everything.

Then came Third Year. Then came Sirius Black. Afterwards, Black was a weapon to wield against him—a hostage for his temper. But he was also an opponent. I saw him—watched him—_touching_ the boy. A hug. A pat on the head. A hand on his shoulder. I saw how the brat's eyes shined when the mutt's name was mentioned. I saw him and I _knew_.

The convict had to go.

How dare _he_ of all people be the one to bring out that spark that no one else could touch. Sirius fucking Black—the beloved black sheep. Albus's poster boy for the reform of dark families. The godfather of my . . . of the boy.

_My_ boy.

Yes. Mine. I had decided by then. I knew.

The best revenge is living well. And I am not a forgiving man.

He's mine.

Did that idiot Black really believe I'd let him take one more thing from me?

When the boy's third year came, I knew I had to stand between him and the mutt. Only a fool could have missed how desperately lonely the boy was. He only had _two_ friends for Merlin's sake. And every year—every incident—only isolated him a bit more. Drew him away from the herd and made him more vulnerable to me. I knew that if the boy had known that Black was his godfather—convict or not—he'd give the smarmy bastard the benefit of the doubt. Really, the child is sickeningly kind-hearted.

But the werewolf was there, too. _Hovering_ over the child. Those private lessons. Those _looks_ at what was mine. Why the hell did he have to return? And the stupid boy followed him everywhere like a child's pull toy—those flashing green eyes looking up at that beast-blood with empty-headed adoration, utterly unaware of the monster inside his precious Professor Lupin. I practically _told_ him the danger the man presented, but the stupid soft-hearted whelp didn't listen.

The little fop is utterly incapable of making decisions. Twit.

So once again I had to sweep to his rescue. It does not do, after all, to allow one's things to be mistreated. And then the little ingrate had the audacity to turn his wand against _me_. To humiliate _me_. To steal from me my revenge and let that thrice damned convict go. How _dare_ he! How dare he presume to stand in judgment over _me_, the one person who obviously knows what's good for him.

But the key is patience. Diligence. Persistence. And, ultimately, he's mine anyway, so anything else doesn't really matter.

Albus's pet werewolf was removed from the scene and Black, as a fugitive, couldn't go near the boy. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but he's a fickle little creature, so I knew the boy would cling only to a fantasy of Black. The reality of the man was something far different, and—though he's not remarkably bright—Potter loathes being deceived.

Fourth Year arrived. I stood waiting in the shadows, always watching and waiting. I let it slip to the boy's simple-minded House Elf that gillyweed was in my possession, once again rescuing the boy from his own lack of preparation. But Moody was a problem. He watched me too closely—would let me nowhere near the silly boy. I couldn't protect him—not the way that it needed to be done. When he vanished during the Third Trial, I knew it was Moody. The old bastard took him from me. Yet once again my boy returned to me—bent double beneath the weight of a corpse, but he returned. Alive. Whole. Well.

And then Albus—despite all my warnings—handed him right over to Moody. The fool. Though imagine my surprise to find little Barty Crouch, all grown up.

But we got him in the end and the child was once again safe.

Or so I had thought.

With the Dark Lord's return, things changed. Albus still kept me under his watchful eye—just to be sure that I remained one of his good and faithful little soldiers—but now I was in a position of power. I was once again a spy—once again a Death Eater. I was embedded in the Order once more and sent by the Light's aged captain to kneel at the Dark Lord's throne again and again. It was on my information that coups and counterstrokes were planned. But, most importantly, I had a choice. I had options. And I fully intended to use them.

The boy was fifteen by now—not a child for much longer—and was distanced from everyone: Albus, the Order, his friends . . . But not from me. Twice a week he was given to me on a platter and so I taught him. I rooted through his mind for secrets—things that no one knew—and I planted a few seeds of my own. A suggestion here. An idea there. I cut him away from those who would take him from me. The Chinese Ravenclaw girl. The Headmaster. Even a whisper or two in his ear about Black. A warning. _'Don't blindly trust him.' 'Don't allow him to talk you into anything dangerous.'_ I encouraged him to look away from those crumbling pillars on which he'd rested his faith and trust and pulled him just a bit closer to me. Slowly. Subtly.

And I knew it was hurting him, but it really was necessary. I had to allow that sliver of curiosity about me and my past to grow and spread through his mind. To turn into a need to know more about me. And then it blew up in my face.

I never imagined he would dare to enter my memories. But he did. He entered and saw my ultimate humiliation. An unnecessary, but inevitable stop on a long line of humiliation and degradation at the hands of those . . . _Gryffindors_.

I could have killed him. Had he been anyone else, I _would_ have killed him.

How _dare_ he . . .

I needed time. Time away from the whelp. Time to rethink my plans and . . . decompress. Time to myself.

I don't know why I ever imagined I could take my eyes off him for a moment in good conscience. The boy is hopelessly inept in matters of his own protection. It was only a matter of time. That toad of a woman, _Umbridge_, caught him this time.

Really, if Albus would simply let me have the damned Defense position, he'd have no more worry about people hexing the little fool into oblivion. _I_ have certainly never had the Dark Lord attached to the back of my skull, or turned into a werewolf, or tried to Obliviate the child into insanity, or been a Ministry mole. If Albus trusted the boy to me half as much as he claimed to, he would simply hand the boy over to me now and save us all a lot of time and bother.

But Albus can be very much a fool. He is utterly _blinded_ by his love for this child. The boy has the old goat practically wrapped around his finger and both of them are too thickheaded to even see it. But I can see it. Harry Potter has become Albus's weakness. What kind of Slytherin would I be if I didn't use this to my advantage?

And the manipulative old git really thinks he can trust me when he stands directly in the way of what I want.

Though, I can't say he trusts me as much as he used to—not after Black's most . . . lamentable death.

It really was perfect, though. A masterstroke. Black gone, Potter wracked by guilt and depression, the Ministry mole removed, and Albus cut off from his Golden Boy. I never could have planned anything so perfect . . . or anything that left me so rigorously free of culpability. The seeds I had planted are beginning to blossom.

It's a marvelous thing to see. So _beautiful_ to watch the fruit of one's labors ripen.

A meeting. A plan. A whisper at the hem of black robes.

Patience.

They're going to lose, the so-called Light Side. I can see it. They thought to offer up a child as a sacrifice for their own sins—their hubris. But he is not theirs to give. He's mine.

Mine.

And I don't share.

How could I have ever imagined things differently?

_"Harry Potter **lived**!"_

I find myself repeating the words in the darkness of my chambers at night.

_"Harry Potter **lived**!"_

I will see to it that he continues to do so. He's a pretty thing, after all. No revenge has ever been less onerous than this. I have no care for the world, as long as I can secure what is mine.

And the wolf will die of grief when he realizes what has happened.

Really . . . despite all that's happened, things simply could not be going better.

**

  
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o 

**

Chapter One: Poor Boys and Pilgrims

_"Little Master will be a good boy eventually," the Elf said in what was no doubt supposed to be a conciliatory tone. "Master will make everything alright."_**

  
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

**


	2. Poor Boys & Pilgrims

**Thresh  
**- Vain  
06.24.2004

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Standard Disclaimer:  
**I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the quotes preceding the chapters come from Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. If you have not read it, take the time and do so. It is an . . . experience.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Voldemort can give Severus the one thing Dumbledore will not: an opportunity. What's a Slytherin to do?

**Warnings: SS/HP slash**, disturbing themes, underaged-ness, violence, mature content, dubious consent, abuse of power over a minor, somnophilia, bondage, improper use of Potions, and some dubious psychological torture.

**Rated: R -** this is the EDITED version; links to the NC-17 version can be found at my profile.

**Notes:** Takes place in the middle of Sixth Year.  
Snape is not a warm, fluffy, insipid sap in this: he is a nasty, sadistic, greasy, arrogant, ego-centric wanker. Welcome to the land of IC.  
This is absolutely, 100 un-related to any of my other fics.  
To facilitate updates, these chapters will be shorter than the chapters in some of my other fics.

This story was originally launched under my secondary pen name, "Hanakai." For convenience's sake, I have decided to streamline my fics under my original pen name, Vain. **_SAME AUTHOR._****_ SAME STORY. DIFFERENT NAME._** As a fic is re-uploaded under my Vain pen name, I will delete it from my Hanakai profile. Eventually, Hanakai will be deleted entirely, so please update your faves and bookmarks to reflect this.

_Thank you_ for all your previous reviews—I saved them all—and I hope you all review again. I'm greedy.

For progress notes on the pen name transition or if you have any questions, please see **my** **Livejournal** (linked both my profiles). I hope this doesn't inconvenience anyone & thank you for your patience.

**Special Thanks** to my betas **Apapazukamori** and **E.E.S.** snugs V

**UTERRLY A GIFT** with much love to **EVELIA** who draws me pretty pictures.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**  
Enjoy!

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Chapter One:  
Poor Boys and Pilgrims**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_" 'When do you mean to arrest me?' _

'Well, I can let you walk about another day or two. Think it over, my dear fellow, and pray to God. It's more in your interest, believe me.'

'And what if I run away?' asked Raskolnikov with a strange smile.

'No, you won't run away. A peasant would run away, a fashionable dissenter would run away, the flunkey of another man's thought, for you've only to show him the end of your little finger and he'll be ready to believe in anything for the rest of his life. But you've ceased to believe in your theory already, what will you run away with? And what would you do in hiding? It would be hateful and difficult for you, and what you need more than anything in life is a definite position, an atmosphere to suit you. And what sort of atmosphere would you have? If you ran away, you'd come back to yourself. You can't get on without us._ And if I put you in prisonsay you've been there a month, or two, or threeremember my word, you'll confess of yourself and perhaps to your own surprise. You won't know an hour beforehand that you are coming with a confession. I am convinced that you will decide, "to take your suffering." You don't believe my words now, but you'll come to it of yourself. For suffering, Rodion Romanovitch, is a great thing. Never mind my having grown fat, I know all the same. Don't laugh at it, there's an idea in suffering, Nokolay is right. No, you won't run away, Rodion Romanovitch.' "_

You can't get on without us. 

**Fyodor Dostoevsky  
Crime and Punishment**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_Mandrake, vervain, ambergris, orange skin, tobacco, briony, fern seed, dragon blood, catharides, rose stems, dove heart, phoenix eyes, and betel nuts. _

So little time.

Shed skin, semen, blood, and hair—short, crisp and dark.

A visit to Pomfrey's stores, a word to one or two to one of the more timid House Elves, even a fruitful evening in the laundry room . . . all far too easy. How very careless of them. Harry Potter, it seems, is a fairly easy individual to get at, if one knows how to go about such things. I take everything I need. I take more—just in case.

Avocados to hide the taste. Soups and cakes and even candies. Memory and desire distilled into scentless liquid drops.

All it takes is patience.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_"F_iddle! Fetch! Flicker! Present yourselves!" 

The voice thundered through the somber foyer, sending shadows fleeing. One of the portraits on the wall, a bitter-looking man wearing a ruffled conquistador-esque collar and with a pointed goatee and mustaches, jerked awake sharply. He blinked at the newcomers, then rolled his eyes and went back to sleep with nary a whimper.

Harry Potter held his overnight bag in front of him and rocked back on his heels, looking unintentionally shy. Behind him, Snape closed the heavy double doors with a loud boom. There came the sound of several locks clicking and the boy shifted uncomfortably for a moment, using the ratty tip of one battered trainer to scratch at the back of his knee. Then the Potions Master came striding up to stand beside the Gryffindor.

_This isn't real_, the youth told himself, unable to reconcile the relatively happy life he'd led this morning with the reality of standing in the foyer of Snape Hall. _This is all a dream._

Black eyes stared down into vivid green ones for a moment before Potter looked away, still looking decidedly unhappy.

_This is a dream._

The Professor's gaze did not shift. "I do not enjoy this situation anymore than you do, Mr. Potter, but for now we will have to make do. The Headmaster's instructions were clear: as long as Hogwarts is endangered by the Dark Lord, you are to remain inside Snape Hall. That means no owls, no fire, no Quidditch, no muggle" (he made the word 'muggle' sound vulgar), "means of communication. You were told to stay put, and you _will stay put._ Do you understand, Mr. Potter?"

The boy's eyes hardened belligerently. "I should be fighting with the others, not hiding in some hole. I have to go back."

"You will do no such thing, Potter! You are under _my_ protection, and while you may take that lightly, I do not. This 'hole,' as you so quaintly call it, is my home, and you are a guest. You will conduct yourself accordingly." The tall man loomed over the boy, invading his personal space and forcing him a step back as he leaned down. He bent until his rather considerable nose was almost brushing Harry's. His voice dropped to a menacing whisper and Harry shuddered as warm, mint-scented breath puffed over his mouth and cheeks. "Remember, Potter: your precious fan club is not here to save you, and _I_ am not as lenient as our esteemed Headmaster. Now, for the last time: _do you understand_?"

The Gryffindor swallowed hard and his eyes glittered like emeralds left in the snow. "Yes, sir."

Snape recoiled so rapidly Harry was left blinking in befuddlement. The man smiled—a viper-like expression. "Good boy."

"The Master is calling us?" a voice squeaked.

Harry started, dropping his overnight bag, and Snape sneered at his charge. A long fingered, potions stained hand reached out, grabbed the crown of the Gryffindor's head, and forced the boy to turn to face the speaker. Though he wasn't pulling the youth's hair, the grip that the man had on Harry's head was painful where those long, fine fingers pressed hard against his skull. Three identical House Elves stood before them, each in black and turquoise livery, and each dropped into a low bow.

"Potter, meet Fiddle, Fetch, and Flicker." Snape tilted the boy's head a bit as he said each name, forcibly directing his gaze towards each of the Elves in turn. "Elves, _this_," here he gave Harry's head a little shake, "is Harry Potter. He will be staying at Snape Hall for a bit. You are to obey him as per my instructions. No more, no less."

Harry tried to pull away from his professor, but the man's hand held him tight. The Elves all dropped another bow to him, but made no other reaction to his name.

"Flicker—" Snape turned Harry's head back to the indistinguishable Elf on the far right, "will be your manservant, Potter. He will be with you at all times. He will be with you when you eat. He will watch over you as you sleep. He will be with you as you bathe, urinate, read, masturbate, and do whatever else it is that vapid, feckless, arrogant, impertinent, empty-headed Gryffindor children do. From this moment until I relieve him, the only person he will answer to above you is me. And neither of you are _ever_ to disobey me so long as you are in these walls. Understand, Potter? Or shall I explain it again using smaller words?"

Harry, his face flaming with humiliation—and horror that he had actually heard Snape say 'masturbate'—squeaked out something that could have been an affirmative and tried to jerk away from the feel of Snape's hot palm pressed against the top of his head.

"Fiddle," Snape enunciated as he forced Harry's head to the Elf on the far left, "is _my_ manservant. If you cannot find me, call for him. You will obey Fiddle as you would obey me. In the event that you do not obey Fiddle, you will be punished. In the event that you do not obey me, you will be punished. Fiddle, Fetch, and Flicker are all authorized to punish you in my absence. Fetch—" the middle Elf "—is the Head Steward. He runs the household. If you need something and you cannot find me, or Fiddle, or Flicker, you are to find Fetch. You will obey Fetch as you would obey me or Fiddle. In the event that you do not obey Fetch, you will be punished. Do you understand? And try to respond in a semblance of language this time."

The sound that squeaked out of Harry sounded nothing even remotely like his voice, _or_ a language, but Snape seemed satisfied nonetheless and released his hold on the Gryffindor. Harry staggered away from the older man so quickly that he tripped over his bag and fell flat on his face.

Snape sneered down at him in contempt. "Stupid boy."

The Elves watched in silence.

The Potions Master looked away, apparently bored with watching Harry make a royal arse of himself for the day, and turned his black-eyed gaze to Flicker. "Help your Master," he barked harshly, inciting the Elf to spring to the boy's side. The sneer widened. "You are to show Master Potter to the White Room. The suite will be his—"

"The White Room?" the Elf squeaked, stunned to interruption. His eyes were round as saucers. "But the White Room is for Master's—"

Snape's eyes seemed to spew venom and Flicker wilted instantly, cringing behind Harry.

"I am well aware of what the White Room is for!" the Potions Master snarled. "And you are to take your new Master there with no further discussion. It is to be his for the duration of his stay. He is not to leave there until dinner. The second, third, and fourth floors of the South Wing, and all the rooms therein are off limits. My Potions Lab is off limits. The Ballroom and the North Turret Drawing Room are off limits. My chambers are off limits."

"Yes, Master Snape," Flicker squeaked with another bow. A rough, leather-like hand gripped Harry gently by the wrist and tugged the boy out of the foyer, towards the master staircase. "Come, Master Potter. The White Room is in the West Turret, sir. We is having a long way to go, sir."

The boy twisted, though whether he wanted his bag, or merely wished to escape the Elf was anyone's guess. Flicker, however, had other ideas and—despite his petit stature—easily kept a vice-like grip on his charge.

"Come, Master Potter, we is going now!" the little creature squeaked, dragging Harry to the stairs.

"But, my bag—"

"It is coming along shortly. _Come_, Little Master! Master Snape is ordering us gone and we _is obeying the Master_!"

There was an implied 'whether you like it or not' in the Elf's tone that forced Harry to relent and allow himself to be dragged up the long sweeping staircase by his new manservant. As he looked back he caught sight of his host, greasy head turned to the two remaining Elves as he barked out order after imperious order. Harry could pick up on his name, but little else.

_Greasy old bat's probably telling them not to let me out of their sight. Nasty, sadistic wank—_

Flicker, as though sensing Harry's uncharitable thoughts, jerked the boy hard, making him trip and nearly fall down again. Green eyes snapped to the Elf as he was pulled up to the third floor hall. A long hallway extended directly in front of him, as well as off to the left and right, splitting the area into a three way intersection.

Flicker pointed directly in front of them. "The West, Little Master. Little Master's rooms are at the end of the hallway in the Grand Turret, sir. To the left, sir, is the South Wing, sir. Master says that Little Master is not permitted in the South Wing."

Harry sighed in irritation and tried unsuccessfully to jerk his wrist free of the manservant. "I heard that much. I just—"

"Little Master is not to be there, or Flicker must punish you," the Elf overrode him, completely ignoring his interruption. Doleful blue eyes, slightly egg-shaped and the size of tennis balls, turned and look at Harry with profound sadness. "Flicker does not wish to punish his Little Master, sir. And Flicker does not wish for the Master to punish either of us. We must always obey the Master, sir."

"Yes, but—"

"The Upper Library and Sewing, Music, and Sitting rooms be in the North Wing on the right. Little Master and Flicker may thus far visit those as the Little Master pleases. Little Master is not to be destroying any of the Master's things, though. We must—"

"Obey the Master," Harry snapped, trying again to wrench his wrist free. "I know that, Flicker, but if you would just let me go—"

Flicker's eyes widened and he beamed in joy. "Wise Little Master!" The Elf seemed to do a quick jig of glee before jerking Harry down the West hallway. "Wise Little Master! Oh, the Master may not have to punish you at all if Little Master is so wise."

That drew Harry up short and he literally dug his heels into the thick carpeting and jerked his hand up. The Elf, still maintaining his death grip, was jerked right up off his feet. His long ears, which had been twitching with joy, drooped as the boy pulled him up so that they were at eye level.

"Snape," Harry hissed venomously, "isn't going to _touch_ me—"

Great big tears formed at the corners of Flicker's enormous eyes and the tiny thing seemed to wilt. "We must obey the Master, Little Master. Flicker is being a good House Elf. Little Master Harry Potter must be being a good boy. Bad boys are punished, Little Master. Bad boys . . ." the Elf broke off with a shudder. "Master does not like bad boys."

Suddenly the weight of the Elf seemed to be far, far too much to hold and Harry dropped his arm with a groan. Flicker touched lightly down on the floor as if he _didn't_ suddenly feel like he weighed two hundred pounds and, still holding Harry's wrist, resumed dragging the boy back down the end of the hall.

"Little Master will be a good boy eventually," the Elf said in what was no doubt supposed to be a conciliatory tone. "Master will make everything alright."

The events of the afternoon suddenly seemed to overwhelm Harry and he swayed dangerously before the Elf jerked him forward. The ominous feeling he had felt in the pit of his belly lurched and swelled until he was lightheaded.

"Master will make it better," the Elf continued.

Somehow, as Harry was pulled towards the oak door at the very end of the hall, he didn't feel the least bit comforted.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Chapter Two: And I Saw, Behold, a White Horse  
**

_"I am perfectly capable of controlling my baser instincts, Potter," Snape hissed from behind him. "If you think you can do the same . . ."_

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**


	3. And I Saw, Behold, a White Horse

**Thresh  
**- Vain  
06.24.2004

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

**Standard Disclaimer:  
**I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the quotes preceding the chapters come from Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. If you have not read it, take the time and do so. It is an . . . experience.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Voldemort can give Severus the one thing Dumbledore will not: an opportunity. What's a Slytherin to do?

**Warnings: SS/HP slash**, disturbing themes, underaged-ness, violence, mature content, dubious consent, abuse of power over a minor, somnophilia, bondage, improper use of Potions, and some dubious psychological torture.

**Rated: R -** this is the EDITED version; links to the NC-17 version can be found at my profile.

**Notes:** Takes place in the middle of Sixth Year.  
Snape is not a warm, fluffy, insipid sap in this: he is a nasty, sadistic, greasy, arrogant, ego-centric wanker. Welcome to the land of IC.  
This is absolutely, 100 un-related to any of my other fics.  
To facilitate updates, these chapters will be shorter than the chapters in some of my other fics.

This story was originally launched under my secondary pen name, "Hanakai." For convenience's sake, I have decided to streamline my fics under my original pen name, Vain. **_SAME AUTHOR._****_ SAME STORY. DIFFERENT NAME._** As a fic is re-uploaded under my Vain pen name, I will delete it from my Hanakai profile. Eventually, Hanakai will be deleted entirely, so please update your faves and bookmarks to reflect this.

_Thank you_ for all your previous reviews—I saved them all—and I hope you all review again. I'm greedy.

For progress notes on the pen name transition or if you have any questions, please see **my** **Livejournal** (linked both my profiles). I hope this doesn't inconvenience anyone & thank you for your patience.

**Special Thanks** to my betas **Apapazukamori** and **E.E.S.** snugs V

**UTERRLY A GIFT** with much love to **EVELIA** who draws me pretty pictures.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**  
Enjoy!

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Chapter Two:  
And I Saw, Behold, a White Horse**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_" 'As far as I am concerned, you may all go to hell, but from what I see, it's clear to me that I can't make head or tail of it; please don't think I've come to ask you questions. I don't want to know, hang it! If you begin telling me your secrets, I dare say I shouldn't stay to listen, I should go away cursing. I have only come to find out once for all whether it's a fact that you are mad? There is a conviction in the air that you are mad or very nearly so. I admit I've been disposed to that opinion myself, judging from your stupid, repulsive and quite inexplicable actions, and from your recent behavior to your mother and sister. Only a monster or a madman could treat them as you have; so you must be mad.' "_

Fyodor Dostoevsky  
Crime and Punishment

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_It was a dream. _

Snape was kneeling at Voldemort's feet.

No . . . Snape was having tea with Voldemort . . .

No . . . Tea with Lucius.

Voldemort was having tea with Lucius.

Bellatrix Lestrange was gnawing on her hands. Or maybe they were someone else's hands.

"Is it almost time, my Lord?" Lucius—who looked like Snape—poured the tea into cups. The cups were clear and the tea was blue and viscous. It looked like plumbing solution. "I am ready to act."

Voldemort raised the teacup in front of his lipless mouth and tilted it back. Blue liquid spilled down the front of his black robes and into his lap. "Impatient, aren't you, old friend?"

Lucius slowly poured his tea out of his cup and onto the table. It did not splash, instead rolling in an imprecise puddle towards the edge of the beaten surface. "I have waited a very long time, my Lord. A very long time."

"Patience is virtue." Voldemort turned away from Lucius and the edges of the world seemed to shudder as those awful red eyes focused on something they shouldn't have been able to see. "Isn't it, Mr. Potter?"

Harry woke up with a scream lodged in the back of his throat, choking on air.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_I_t had begun like any other day. Really, Harry had no clue exactly where things had gone so wrong. Ron woke him up and poked and prodded at him until the Seeker dragged himself out of bed and fumbled into some clothes. Hermione, who was ignoring Ron ever since Padma had kissed his cheek in Defense on Monday, sat in a frigid silence to Harry's left while the redhead spent the duration of breakfast alternately shoveling something that might have been kippers in his mouth and prodding Harry to pass inane messages to Hermione. Harry endured about ten minutes of this before his stomach began to roil and he excused himself to empty what little he'd choked down into one of the toilets in the boys' lavatory.

His scar was throbbing dully.

Seamus—who had been hiding most suspiciously in one of the adjoining stalls—immediately bounded to his Quidditch co-captain's aid and spent a good five minutes rubbing his back. . . . And then thought it would be brilliant to move to rubbing other parts of Harry's backside which earned him a less than playful shove into the loo. He was just lucky Harry had flushed beforehand.

After Harry had fled his friend / sexual assaulter, he burst into Transfiguration ten minutes late, thereby losing ten points. _"By Sixth Year you should know better, Potter!"_ Then the snake he was supposed to be turning into a vase refused to cooperate and Malfoy started to goad him. He insulted Malfoy, but forgot to switch from parseltongue back into English and Thisby—his snake—figured out that the white human was hassling the scarred human (whom he'd become rather fond of over the past ten minutes) and attacked Malfoy. By the end of it, Malfoy had gone to the Infirmary screaming that Harry was a madman and would kill them all, Ron's snake was a golf club, Harry's snake hissed and spat at anyone who even breathed near his newly adopted human, Gryffindor was down forty points for inciting violence, and Neville had _somehow_ accidentally transfigured both Hermione's ears into teacup handles.

Then was double Defense Against the Dark Arts. Hermione arrived late (having had to have her ears fixed by Professor McGonagall), and startled Professor Tonks, who promptly tripped over her own two feet, fell down, and accidentally hexed a desk to turn into a wild hippogriff. Three more students were off to the Infirmary along with Tonks, had been knocked unconscious before Ron and Harry calmed the hippogriff and Hermione turned the desk back to its natural state. This of course turned into yet another bout of bickering between the two which was ended by Harry diplomatically screaming, "_Shut the hell up and bloody shag one another already!_" and then storming out of the room.

He _knew_ he should have just gone to bed then and told the rest of the world to bugger off, but Dobby popped out of nowhere to summon him to the Headmaster's office. With Snape having been MIA for the past week, Harry had rather hoped to enjoy his unusually potions-free period ensconced in his bed with _Quidditch Through the Ages_ and a cruller, but when Dumbledore called, you had to answer. So off he went to the Headmaster's tower. And _that_ was when the day turned bad.

Because who should be sitting in front of the Headmaster's desk (in Harry's usual seat, no less), but Severus Snape. Harry paused in the door, eyed the dour looking man with unabashed loathing, and then promptly flounced in and sat as far as humanly possible from Snape without actually sitting inside a wall. Snape snarled like a rabid pit-bull, Dumbledore gave them both a stern frown that was completely ignored, and Fawkes cooed at nothing.

The Headmaster pointed his wand at Harry's chair and the boy squeaked as the seat slid across the floor until it was next to Snape's in front of the large desk. Snape leaned away from him, glaring into a teacup that Harry hadn't noticed, and the old man beamed at his protégé. "Good morning, Harry! How are classes going? I heard that you were having some difficulty with a snake this morning."

Harry blushed and slouched. "He didn't want me to transfigure him."

"Understandable. I think the being a vase would be rather dull. Now slippers, _that's_ the life for me! Or perhaps a good pair of glow in the dark toe socks—you know, the ones with the toes separated. Muggles are so very clever."

Harry _didn't_ know, actually, but that didn't matter because Snape, true to form, had no interest in allowing the Dumbledore to expound.

"If you _please_, Headmaster!" The teacup and saucer were set on the desk with a loud _click_. "If you insist on having the brat here, at least move this along a bit. I for one would like to relax for a bit after this . . . _fiasco_."

The Headmaster instantly wilted and Harry was seriously tempted to bludgeon Snape to death with the teacup . . . or at least pour the tea on him.

Dumbledore leaned back into his seat and tugged on his beard, looking sad. "Quite right, my boy. Forgive me."

Snape sniffed. Harry twitched.

Dumbledore sighed. "Harry, the reason Professor Snape was . . . detained . . . so long this past week was because his position has been discovered. I'm afraid we rather underestimated the Malfoy family."

Green eyes slid over to Snape, scanning the man for any hint of wounds or pain before he remembered that this was Snape and the man probably rightly deserved to be spread on the rack or whatever it was the Voldemort had done to him. Still, he couldn't suppress a small thrill of glee at having put the ferret in the Hospital Wing for the morning, however unintentional it had been. It was, after all, all in the name of the cause.

"Thankfully," the Headmaster continued, "he was able to escape uninjured with the help of—"

Snape cleared his throat.

"—a friend," Dumbledore covered without missing a beat. "Unfortunately, it seems that the situation we feared has at last come to pass." He paused, eyeing Harry sadly for a moment. "Do you remember what we discussed at the beginning of the term? The possible necessity of a safehouse?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. At the beginning of the term, Dumbledore had called Ron, Harry, and Hermione up to his office and explained to them that Voldemort could possibly attempt to attack Hogwarts. With the Ministry finally admitting the Dark Lord's return, there was no need for the man to stay in hiding any longer. The Death Eaters' attacks had become bolder and more audacious than ever before. An evacuation plan had been set for Harry then—something that could quickly and safely remove the Boy-Who-Lived to a secure location known only to the Headmaster. Not even Ron and Hermione would know where he went. They had only attended the meeting to be sure that, should worse come to worse, Harry was safely and quickly delivered to the Headmaster's office for transport. If the school came under sudden attack, there would be no time for the heroics for which Harry was so well known. Haste would be of the essence.

But why all this talk of an evacuation _now_? Though Harry hadn't had a single vision since the Headmaster had taken over his Occlumency training, he'd still have felt _something_ if Voldemort was close enough to actually harm the school. Right?

The silence stretched on between the three of them, punctuated only by Snape retrieving his teacup and taking another swallow of the steaming liquid.

Harry frowned at Dumbledore in confusion. "I thought that that was only in case of attack . . .?"

The Headmaster said nothing for a while and Harry looked back and forth between the two adults. Snape, he noticed uneasily, had a waxen appearance to his skin and dark circles beneath his eyes. The teacup in the man's hands seemed to tremble slightly.

"Harry . . ."

The boy turned back to the Headmaster, something like panic stirring in his belly at the exhausted tone in the other man's voice.

Dumbledore set his lips in a firm, unhappy line. "Harry . . . Azkaban was taken at 7 o'clock this morning. There were living vampires, werewolves and giants fighting along side the Death Eaters. It was only the distraction of taking the prison that allowed Professor Snape to escape."

All the blood drained from Harry's face as the implications of the fall of Azkaban hit him. "No . . ."

The Dark Creatures had sided with Voldemort . . . And now Lucius Malfoy . . . The Dementors . . . The last of the Death Eaters . . . Even the common criminals—the ones who felt wronged or railroaded by the Ministry, or were just plain mad or greedy . . .

Dumbledore nodded, looking older than Harry had ever thought possible. "Yes," he said sadly. "The Dementors betrayed the Ministry. All of the prisoners have been turned loose. Even the ones who did not join Voldemort—" Snape flinched "—have been freed. They are roaming the countryside and causing a tremendous amount of discord. The Ministry is at its wit's end trying to keep the fugitives concealed from the Muggles and trying to control the flow of information."

The boy thought back to the calm normalcy of breakfast and classes with wide eyes. "But how come no one knows—"

"I've filtered the post and blocked the fireplaces, Harry." Confusion contorted the boy's brow and Albus sighed. "We cannot risk the student body panicking, my boy. The world outside these walls is in utter chaos. People are calling for Cornelius Fudge to step down and Wizarding London is in an absolute frenzy. _The Daily Prophet_ released a news report this morning, one sadly grounded in fact: the French, Belgian, and German Ministries are refusing to act because they desperately wish to remain neutral. They consider this an internal affair of wizarding Britain. The U.S. Congress of Wizards in the States is still debating over whether or not to send their Aurors and Hit Wizards to help. Everyone seems to think that Voldemort will be content to stop at the Channel and the shore. We are alone in the fight against Voldemort and the realization, coupled with this latest strike in Voldemort's favor, is causing a wave of terror to sweep the country. If the students were to find out, the halls would be in utter bedlam. We must protect the students, no matter what."

Harry twisted in his seat to look back at Snape, but the other man merely continued taking measured, controlled sips of tea.

The boy turned back to the Headmaster. "No one will help us?"

Fighting Voldemort was one thing, but fighting an entire army with only the help of the disorganized Department of Magical Defense, the Order, and the few allies the Order had managed to glean was another thing entirely. From what Harry had been told, the Order had been assured external help from the other nations.

"What about the U.N. Auror Guard?" he demanded. "The European Protection League?"

Dumbledore remained silent.

"What about the bloody Interpol Aurors?"

Albus shook his head gravely. "There are plans and committees, but no one expected Voldemort to raise an army this quickly. The Guard is far too thinly spread as it is. Most of their people are in Kosovo, the Ukraine, and Russia right now. The E.P.L. is reluctant to send wizards off the continent, and Interpol and the Ministry have never worked well together." He closed his eyes and for a moment looked on the verge of collapse. "We all thought there would be more time."

Snape snorted and Harry's head whipped around, helplessness and frustration contorting his brow. "What are _you_ doing here anyway?"

The Potions Master slowly turned his head and sneered at Harry with an expression of loathing. "How do you think the Headmaster became privy to most of this information, Potter?" He spat the boy's name out like it was something vile. "While you were gazing off into space and no doubt causing far more trouble than you're worth, some of us were out there trying to protect you, you ungrateful litt—"

"Severus, _please_," the Headmaster interrupted. "We do not have time for this; especially not now." He turned his sharp gaze to the Gryffindor. "Harry, for the last time, Professor Snape has been instrumental in this fight and he has paid dearly for his service. You will respect him and give him the consideration he deserves." His eyes flickered back to the other man. "And Severus, we have discussed this before. Regardless of what has occurred in the past, time is too precious for you to antagonize Mr. Potter right now. Particularly given the circumstances."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

Snape suddenly looked away, the muscle in his lower right jaw working angrily. He glared at nothing in particular and took another rigid sip of tea.

The Headmaster settled back into his seat heavily. "Harry, spies are in the student body and it is no longer safe here. It is imperative that both you and Professor Snape be removed from the school until these threats to your persons can be neutralized."

Harry blinked and the words seemed to swirl about in his mind for a moment. He latched onto the first idea he could grasp: Dumbledore wanted him to leave. "Why? Isn't Hogwarts supposed to be safe?"

"Hogwarts _is_ safe, my dear child. For now. However, I cannot allow the student body to be endangered unnecessarily. A traitor and the Boy-Who-Lived make far too tempting a target. I will not put others at risk; nonetheless, I am loathe to send you either of you away alone for an indeterminate amount of time. Harry, you will need someone to protect and teach you during your sabbatical. Professor Snape is ideal for that job. He is a skilled wizard and has been looking out for your interests for a very long time."

For a moment there was silence as the Gryffindor looked back and forth between the two adults. A variety of emotions danced over his face. Finally, he seemed to settle on incredulity. "You can't really be serious, sir?" He leaned forward, as though moving Snape out of his line of sight would make the man vanish entirely. "He hates me. I hate him. We'll kill each other."

"I am perfectly capable of controlling my baser instincts, Potter," Snape hissed from behind him. "If you think you can do the same . . ." His tone of voice clearly implied that he held no such hope.

Harry twisted angrily in his seat and glared hatefully at his Professor. "You're a fine one to talk about baser instincts, Snape. As far as I know, there's only one person with the Dark Mark in this room."

Snape went white.

"_Enough!_"

Harry jumped slightly as the Headmaster stood. He turned with wide eyes to the angry countenance of his mentor. He'd never actually heard Dumbledore raise his voice before. Even Snape seemed cowed.

The elderly man _glared_ at them. "I have had _enough_ of this bickering. There are no other alternatives. Severus has agreed to this and now so shall you. You _will_ go to Snape Hall and you _will_ obey Professor Snape. Until the threat has passed from Hogwarts, you will be his ward. I will not hear another word on the issue. You are to leave immediately."

"But—"

The Headmaster shook his head dismissively. "Dobby will help you pack an overnight bag. You may write Ron and Hermione a letter, but you cannot tell them where you are going and whom you are with. There will be no post between you for the duration of your hiatus. It is too much of a security risk. Dobby will bring you back here in forty minutes to portkey off the grounds."

Harry looked down, feeling utterly ashamed of himself for actually driving Dumbledore to shout, and pushed himself up to trudge out. Dobby ushered him off to Gryffindor Tower and drove Harry to distraction alternately weeping and nagging him to move a bit faster. Then he was swept back up to the Headmaster's office where Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall saw him off.

Before the portkey (a ball of glow in the dark toe socks) was pressed into his hands, the Headmaster leaned down and shocked Harry with a surprisingly fortifying hug. _"Be strong, Harry. And _try_ to get along with Professor Snape. Everything will work out for the best,"_ he'd whispered into Harry's ear. And then there was a tug at his navel and they were gone.

. . . Which was how he came to be standing over the toilet in the bathroom of the White Room (which most certainly lived up to its name), trying to urinate while a House Elf stared at him with enormous, unabashed eyes. Somehow, this situation ranked nowhere even remotely _near_ "the best" in Harry's book.

The boy let out a noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a growl and thrust his hips forward as though the motion could somehow impel his uninterested bladder into action. He tried to keep as much of his penis as humanly possible covered with his hands. Somehow, the idea of Snape's overly loyal Elf staring at his bits in rapt fascination was . . . distressing.

"Is the Little Master done yet?" the Elf squeaked, obviously thinking there was nothing wrong with blatantly staring at the flesh exposed by his Master's open fly.

"The Little Master is most certainly _not_ bloody done yet!" he snarled in response. He'd known Flicker for an hour and already wanted to kill the little vermin. He now understood how the Malfoy family could beat a House Elf.

Flicker did not seem to be the least bit deterred by his Master's ill tempered response and continued staring at Harry in wide-eyed adulation.

The Gryffindor shifted his hand slightly in a futile attempt to hide his shame and looked anywhere but at the Elf. The bathroom—like the bed chamber—was large and white. Entirely white. White ceramic tiled walls, white marble floor, white porcelain sink and bath tub, white toilet . . . Simply _white_. Even the candlesticks on the walls and the soft, magical light on the ceiling were white. The bathtub was to his right and was more than large enough for a small car to fit in it comfortably. It was about five and a half feet deep, most of which was sunk into the ground, though there was about a foot and a half raised up from the floor. There was a small step leading up to the tub—complete with a white bathmat—and more steps inside the tub leading down. Two surprisingly comfortable-looking seats were formed by depressions in the tub walls and the faucet was an ornate fluted bit of sculpture which consisted of two rearing ivory stallions on either side of a white porcelain spout. There was no showerhead.

The sink—another large, ornate affair—was to Harry's left, and above it was the vanity. The mirror, thankfully, had yet to make a comment. Prancing ivory colts, frozen in the midst of play, adorned either side of the fluted faucet, and the basin of the sink was shaped like a half moon. The ceiling was high and arched and archaic-looking silver runes ran along the walls like a border. When Harry had first entered the room, he felt a curious tight sensation in his head and sinuses and the runes had lit up. Now, however, they were pale and dormant. A mural cut of ivory was on the wall behind the boy and more startlingly life-like horses were frozen in the midst of cantering about. At first he'd wondered why none of the art seemed to move, but then decided that the last thing he wanted was a dozen horses watching his every move every time he used the loo. Flicker was bad enough.

It rather made him wonder how highly privacy was valued in the Snape household. If the door was anything to go by, he'd have to say not much. The door was to his left and it was not actually a door at all—it was a white marble gate. The bars were formed from coils of vines and small nymphs and fairies hid between the frozen stone hewn leaves. Currently, it stood open to the White Room. Like the bathroom, the chamber was almost painfully white, however—unlike the bathroom, which was a rectangular shape—the White Room was perfectly circular. Since it was located in the West Tower that rather made sense.

There was something unnervingly feminine about the room (though thankfully the horse motif seemed limited to the bathroom). All of the furniture that was against the wall was curved. The dresser, the armoire, the vanity, the head of the bed . . . All of it was shaped to press flush against the wall. Even the door—an actual door this time—was curved, though it didn't appear to be from the outside. The vanity was most definitely for a woman. There were crystal jars and dishes for makeup and powders and small, expensive-looking crystal bottles of amber and ruby colored perfume.

All of the decorations in the room seemed to be colored to fit into the white motif and varied from ivory, to marble, to a strange white wood, to crystal. More runes, similar to the ones in the bathroom, were along the walls of the bedroom. They appeared to be made of white stone—maybe more marble. Small crystal stars, moons, and planets were magical suspended from the high, slightly arching ceiling, forming an entire rotating model of the solar system that would have had Professor Sinatra drooling with envy. As far Harry could tell from what little he recalled from Astronomy, the model on the ceiling was a perfect replica of the stars and planets' current positions. Even the Earth—a small bluish sphere two orbs away from the large, clear ball of the sun—was rotating at a minute, agonizingly slow pace.

The bed was similar to those at Hogwarts in that it was rectangular, curtained (though the curtains seemed to be some sort of thick, white velvet), and so soft, Harry had actually sunk into it a bit when he sat down on it. That was where the similarities ended, however. Compared to the bed at Hogwarts, this one was enormous, and it was raised up on a dais with two steps leading upwards. A downy white comforter covered its surface and milk white silk sheets were pulled up over the pile of white, soft pillows at the head of the bed. There were two night stands on the dais at either side of the bed—each with a single drawer and a magical lamp atop it. Several more lamps were on the walls at regular interval, alternating with clusters of thick, white candles set in three piece, wall mounted crystal candle holders. Currently, however all the lamps were extinguished.

On the side of the wall opposite the door was an enormous window seat that took up nearly half the wall. Late afternoon sunlight poured into the room, reflecting off the white in a surprisingly beautiful way. A plush white cushion was set on the seat and the view overlooked a field and a distant forest. When the sun set, Flicker said, light flooded into the room and hit the crystals scattered about the room, turning it all into a rainbow of color. He had said that the light show made the White Room the most beautiful room in the Hall.

Harry spied the edge of his reflection on the standing mirror in the center of his chamber floor and looked away. He looked ragged and pale.

"Now is Little Master done?" Flicker squeaked, still shamelessly staring at the boy.

Harry sighed and leaned forward, one hand pressed against the wall. He dropped his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut and desperately wished he could just pee already and leave. Or kill the Elf—at this point in time one or the other would do. "No, Flicker."

Flickered leaned forward a bit and reached out. "Would Little Master like Flicker to he—"

"No!" Harry stood bolt upright and felt the unease in his stomach coiled even tighter.

Flicker had jumped backwards at his cry and looked worried and put out.

Harry stalwartly looked straight ahead at one of the smaller ivory cuts above the toilet and wished he were somewhere else. "Look, can't you just wait outside or something?"

"Master said—"

"I _know_ what Snape said," Harry snapped, trying to furtively switch hands without the Elf staring at his penis like it was the Holy Grail or something. "But I can't . . ." He trailed off.

How the hell was he supposed to explain the urinary tract of a human? . . . How did the urinary tract of a human even _work_? Did House Elves even _have_ to pee? Ever?

_Bugger._ Harry glared at the bit of sculpting in front of him. This wasn't going to work.

Flicker apparently came to the same conclusion because he seemed to perk up for an instant and beamed at his young Master. "Flicker will help!" he declared before vanishing with a soft 'pop.'

Harry sighed and it seemed as though something inside him loosened and relaxed. He looked down and shifted slightly so that he was standing over the bowl. Without the Elf, it seemed he had absolutely no problems using the loo. _Thank **God** . . ._

And then there was a boom as the door to his chambers burst open and Snape suddenly swirled into the room. "What have you managed to destroy now, Potter?"

Unfortunately, the dramatic entrance badly startled Harry and he jumped like a startled horse . . . While he still using the loo.

There was splashing.

Hot, liquid, _wet_ splashing . . . all over his clothes, the loo, his _chin_ . . . It was disgusting. It was wet. It was sodding _warm_.

And it was in front of _**Snape**_.

The boy shied back away from the older man, too startled to do anything and his hands reflexively flew down to cover himself. The action caused him to lose his balance and fall right onto his bum on cold, hard floor. Shame burned through him as the continued to feel of warm wetness seeped down from the crotch of his pants to taint his thighs and shins and it was painfully, horribly, appallingly obvious, even with the flimsy cover of his robes, that he'd utterly lost control of his bladder.

Snape looked down at him with an unreadable expression on his face and Flicker peered into the room from behind the man. Frozen with mortification, Harry held still, head bowed, hands still over his exposed penis, and a slow, faintly yellow puddle of liquid oozing over the sparkling white floor out from beneath him. A scream lodged in his throat and his eyes stung. Time seemed to stretch on to infinity as he waited for the soul-flaying insult the bastard no doubt had prepared.

But it never came.

For a moment, Snape merely watched him in silence, and then the man turned to the sink. There was the sound of running water and then a quiet "_Accio_ washcloth." He gestured to the Elf. "Help him clean up." Those black eyes turned back to the red faced teenager on the floor and he tossed the washcloth, now warm and wet, to the boy. "Wipe your face. Dinner will be served in the dining hall in twenty minutes." Then he spun on his heel, robes flaring, and left as abruptly as he'd come.

Harry could have sobbed. Instead he sat on the floor in his own urine, leaned back against the wall of the enormous tub, and wished he were dead.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Chapter Three:  
Keep the Big Door Open**

_"Does this look like a school to you, Potter? No. You are my __ward_, not my student. And I will do as I please."** **

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**


	4. Keep the Big Door Open

**Thresh  
**- Vain  
06.24.2004

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

**Standard Disclaimer:  
**I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the quotes preceding the chapters come from Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. If you have not read it, take the time and do so. It is an . . . experience.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Voldemort can give Severus the one thing Dumbledore will not: an opportunity. What's a Slytherin to do?

**Warnings: SS/HP slash**, disturbing themes, underaged-ness, violence, mature content, dubious consent, abuse of power over a minor, somnophilia, bondage, improper use of Potions, and some dubious psychological torture.

**Rated: R -** this is the EDITED version; links to the NC-17 version can be found at my profile.

**Notes:** Takes place in the middle of Sixth Year.  
Snape is not a warm, fluffy, insipid sap in this: he is a nasty, sadistic, greasy, arrogant, ego-centric wanker. Welcome to the land of IC.  
This is absolutely, 100 un-related to any of my other fics.  
To facilitate updates, these chapters will be shorter than the chapters in some of my other fics.

This story was originally launched under my secondary pen name, "Hanakai." For convenience's sake, I have decided to streamline my fics under my original pen name, Vain. **_SAME AUTHOR._****_ SAME STORY. DIFFERENT NAME._** As a fic is re-uploaded under my Vain pen name, I will delete it from my Hanakai profile. Eventually, Hanakai will be deleted entirely, so please update your faves and bookmarks to reflect this.

_Thank you_ for all your previous reviews—I saved them all—and I hope you all review again. I'm greedy.

For progress notes on the pen name transition or if you have any questions, please see **my** **Livejournal** (linked both my profiles). I hope this doesn't inconvenience anyone & thank you for your patience.

**Special Thanks** to my betas **Apapazukamori** and **E.E.S.** snugs V

**UTERRLY A GIFT** with much love to **EVELIA** who draws me pretty pictures.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**  
Enjoy!

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Chapter Three:  
Keep the Big Door Open**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_"In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture are so truthlike and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly, but so artistically consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist like Pushkin or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the waking state. Such sick dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system."_

_**Fyodor Dostoevsky  
Crime and Punishment** _

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_"How?" _

_"His food. His drinks. I've already put a tap on the pipes in his rooms. Everything he eats and drinks. Every meal, and snack, and comfort food. The censers in his chambers. I want it everywhere. But you must be discreet. He is ignorant, but he is also maddeningly curious. If he suspects a mystery, he will do anything to seek it out. He cannot suspect anything."_

_"Of course, Master."_

_"Inform me when you need some more. Only a few drops at a time will do. This must be gradual."_

_"As you say, Master." A moment of hesitation. ". . . If I may be so bold, how will you begin?"_

_"The same way all great undertakings begin, old friend: with a dream."_** **

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_H_arry appeared in the dining room exactly twenty minutes later. His overnight bag still had not arrived, but the White Room's armoire and closet were filled to bursting with traditional wizarding garb in various shades of greens, blacks, browns, dark blues, and—surprisingly—deep, fiery reds. There was also an abundance of socks and underwear, outdoor robes, seven potions robes, two warded robes, and three pairs of what looked suspiciously like flying robes. All of the clothing seemed to fit him perfectly, something which Harry found to be more than a little bit disturbing. Especially the bit about the underwear.

Flicker had selected his clothes for him—something that the Gryffindor suspected was to be the norm. However, much to Harry's surprise, the Elf had remarkably good taste and insisted that his charge wear a white undershirt, dark red jumper, and black slacks. A comfortable and casual black robe topped off the outfit, along with a pair of pricy looking black leather boots that laced up in the front. Judging by the look of distaste the Elf had given his admittedly shoddy trainers, he would not be seeing his own shoes again. The boots were nice, though—more comfortable and warmer than any other shoes he'd ever owned—and the leather shone in the bright light.

The light was cast by candles and a spill of the moonlight. The silvery disk had risen full and heavy in the October night and shone brilliantly through the enormous windows that took up most of the wall across from him on the other side of the dining room table. The candles were set on the table and in classy-looking brass brackets adorning the walls. The room was large and rectangular and when Harry entered through the main door, he saw that there were doors on both ends of the room. Both were closed. The dining hall itself had the high ceiling Harry had come to expect to be the norm at the manor. Portraits hung on the wall, all watching him with great distaste. Small tables stood next to the wall at even intervals and the center of the room was occupied by the dining table. It was immense—far too long for simply the two of them—and was set as though they were expecting thirty people.

Snape sat to his left at the far end of the table in what was obviously the Master's seat. His long, stained fingers were wrapped 'round a delicate-looking crystal wine glass that was near full with a deep, dark red wine, and he was staring at the flickering candle flames before him with an indistinguishable expression on his face. His sharp black eyes latched onto Harry the moment he and Flicker appeared and his dark gaze moved over the boy critically, taking in every inch of him. The Gryffindor's face burned red beneath the perusal and he felt the sudden urge to bolt. Instead he braced himself and forced himself to meet the man's gaze, ready to face whatever comment Snape had about the incident in the bathroom. The man watched him a moment longer, measuring him.

Finally, the Potion's Master gestured almost languidly towards the seat at the far end of the table without a word. Bewildered, but grateful, Harry released a breath, turning sharply on his heel, made his way to the distant seat on his right. He was absurdly aware of his shiny new boots as he went and slid into the ornately carved oak seat. The back was hard and uncomfortably high, forcing him to sit straight up, and Snape seemed to be miles away on the other side of the table.

Flicker pushed the chair in close to the table and then took up position next to the right arm of Harry's chair. The plates were china and had an ivy-like design around the edges. Silver silverware glittered in the candle light, an array of forks, knives, and spoons of varying sizes and functions that the boy couldn't decipher. The food materialized on the plate with a 'pop'—something that looked quite a bit like a chicken thigh with oregano, mashed potatoes and honey-glazed baby carrots—and the crystal wine glass next to Harry's plate immediately filled with pumpkin juice.

For a moment, he stared down at the food, unsure what to do. He wasn't exactly hungry, but life at the Durselys had taught him to take what he could when he could and Merlin only knew _what_ Snape considered a punishment. Food, sleep, even the clothes he wore . . . all had been withheld from him before. Sure, Snape had provided him with that beautiful room, these great clothes, and he certainly wasn't skiving back on the portions, but how long would it take for fear of Dumbledore to fade into the backdrop? That, he was certain, was why Snape had been so . . . decent so far. Dumbledore. The headmaster had to have said something to make Snape play nice—if only for a little while.

It was no secret that the greasy bastard hated Harry and the feeling was happily reciprocated. Now that Snape had Harry to himself, there was simply no telling what he would do. What he could do.

"Is the food not to your liking?"

The boy jumped as Snape's voice carried to him from the other end of the table. Again, the hostility and . . . loathing . . . was strangely toned down—not at all like the Snape he was used to.

Harry picked up the first fork available—the biggest one—and poked at the poultry. The meat was so tender it practically melted off the bone. The Gryffindor stabbed it and brought it to his mouth almost warily, chewing it carefully as though he expected it to transfigure into something foul at any moment. Snape watched him avidly across the distance between them. Suddenly, Harry's eyes lit up and he dove into the meal with gusto, abruptly famished.

It was _good_. It was beyond good: it was _brilliant_.

Snape took a small sip of his wine and continued watching the boy for several more minutes. "I will have Fetch add quail to the menu more often."

Harry instantly froze, knife and fork poised over his plate, and a crimson flush suddenly stained his cheeks. Wordlessly, he set down the knife and straightened in his seat, now using the fork to poke primly at the meal.

What had he been _thinking_? This was not the Great Hall. He couldn't just eat any old way. Was he destined to make an ass out of himself for the duration of his stay?

"If you're going to attempt to use proper manners, Potter, I may as well inform you that you're using the wrong fork."

Though there was no amusement in his tone, Harry just _knew_ the bastard was laughing at him. He set the fork down and leaned back in his chair dejectedly to glare bitterly at his host. For a moment the words "I'm sorry" seemed to lodge in his throat. But he had no idea what he really had to apologize for, so he swallowed them.

On the other end of the table, Snape carefully cut his piece of quail apart and used one of the forks from the middle of the silverware formation to eat it, seemingly oblivious to Harry's glare. He speared a baby carrot and looked up, eyes flat and unreadable. "Stop pouting."

"May I please be excused?" the boy countered with a forced, fierce kind of politeness.

Dark eyes flickered to the Gryffindor's plate and Snape sneered at the devastated remains of Harry's quail. "No."

He returned to his own meal with no further elaboration.

Harry balled his hand into a fist and stared at the Potions Master for a moment, eyes narrowed in silent anger. Then, he abruptly pushed back his chair and rose. Flicker squeaked in distress at his apparent disobedience as Harry stalked across the room to the door he'd used to come in.

"Little Master! Little Master!"

He ignored the Elf and set his shoulders into a stiff line. If Snape wanted to be an asshole, fine. Harry certainly didn't have to stick around for the show.

Snape, however, had other ideas. "_Accio_ Harry Potter!"

It felt like a vise had wrapped around Harry, or as though a giant hand had picked him up and _flung_ him backwards. The teen yelped as his feet lifted up off the floor and he became airborne, sailing backwards towards the professor. Snape grabbed his collar as he went past, momentarily strangling the boy with the motion, and Harry's hip slammed into the edge of the dining table so hard that the impact rung through him as though he were a bell, garnering a cry of pain.

Snape easily held him up by the collar, feet dangling, while he thrashed about like a cat held by the scruff. "Let me go, you bastard! You can't do this!"

Ignoring his guest's protests, the professor twisted Harry's collar so that it effectively cut off his air entirely, and then proceeded to half drag, half carry the Gryffindor back up to his seat. He threw the red and trembling boy into the chair so hard that the seat rocked backwards and would have surely tipped over entirely had Snape not planted his hands firmly on the arms of the chair so that he could loom over the Potter heir. The back of the boy's head knocked into the wooden seat back with a solid '_thunk_.'

Red faced and gasping, Harry cringed back despite himself, pain radiating from his throat and hip, as well as his head. His glasses were crooked and his green eyes were wide and frightened. "You can't—you can't—"

Snape leaned down do close that Harry could feel the man's breath mist over his face. "_Shut. Up._"

Harry felt his lower jaw snap closed so fast he bit his tongue. All he could see was Snape's eyes.

"Now listen to me _very_ closely, Mr. Potter." The man's voice was a low rumble: half a whisper, and half a threat. "Today your education begins. I have told you before that I will _not_ tolerate disrespect. I have taken you in, fed you, clothed you, and protect you all as a favor to the headmaster."

He leaned impossibly closer, invading Harry's space totally, and the boy paled dramatically as one of the professor's legs slid between his, forcing Harry to spread his thighs slightly and lean further back in the chair. The _scent_ of Snape overwhelmed him: strong, citrus, and almost bitter; and the Gryffindor felt his fingers curl uselessly into fists.

"I _do not like you, Potter_. You are nothing but a stupid, useless, arrogant child with an over-inflated ego and a gross inability to learn from your own idiotic behavior. You are average. Mediocre. There is nothing special or attractive about you. You're nosey and impertinent and your overwhelming ineptitude completely overshadows any and all dubious virtues you may have leeched out of your worthless father. Your sole attributes involve a marginally impressive and ultimately fruitless talent to catch a _Snitch_"—here the scorn in his voice was palpable—"and the only slightly more useful talent of not dying. Everything you touch turns to utter ruin, and death and destruction follow you around like a tornado. You leave _nothing_ but disaster in your wake."

Snape pulled back, and his eyes narrowed darkly, staring at the pale and rattled boy the way a breeder regards a pedigree bitch. He crossed his arms over his chest and the knee that separated Harry's legs bent slightly so that it was pressed against the edge of the seat cushion. "_However_—hopeless though you seem to be—there lurks within you a potential that I cannot deny. A potential which makes your mind-numbing idiocy all the more maddening. The Headmaster has kindly ordered me to help you realize this potential whilst you are under my care and free of your distracting . . . _friends_. This means that you will work, Potter. You will work harder than you have ever had to before in your charmed life. And you _will_ excel. I will not accept failure and stupidity as readily as your other instructors."

"You can't do this to me," Harry whispered roughly, suddenly finding his voice. His eyes looked huge and frightened. "You can't just go throwing students about whenever you please—"

A slow, cruel smile twisted Snape's thin lips. "Does this look like a school to you, Potter? No. You are my _ward_, not my student. And I will do as I please."

Panic darted over Harry's face and he looked ready to attempt to bolt, but Snape moved closer again, forcing him to draw back into the seat again. The boy averted his eyes as Snape leaned in.

"Look at me, Potter."

Harry pulled back into the chair as through preparing to try to climb over the back of it. A pale, stained hand snaked out and gripped his chin with bruising force, fingers digging hard into the boy's soft cheeks as he forced Harry to look at him.

"_Look_ at me," the older man hissed.

Emerald eyes snapped up to meet brown ones so dark they appeared black and the hand gripping his chin suddenly became gentle. "I am not an overly cruel man, Potter. What I do, I do so that you might survive. But you _will_ obey me. I will not tolerate anything less."

Snape's forefinger gently glided over Harry's cheek, but his eyes remained hard as chiseled stone. "Whatever punishments you receive, you will have earned, Potter. Always. And you will always know why you have earned it. I have better things to do than waste my time on you."

He let go of the boy's chin and drew away, taking several steps back from his ward. The chair jerked roughly forward and slid in close to the table. Harry looked down at his half-eaten meal with dull eyes.

There was the soft clink of glass and two small Erlenmeyer flasks of potion were set on the table next to his plate. Snape stared critically down at the top of his head, his face fixed in that same curiously neutral expression as before, looking as though nothing untoward had happened at all. "Once you have finished, drink those and then go to bed. You look exhausted. The blue one will help prevent the Dark Lord from invading your mind as you sleep and the green one will take care of whatever discomfort you may be in. Tomorrow we will start with Defense. Then you will have Potions and rudimentary Herbology and then a study hour in the Library. Flicker will monitor what books you read and you will be given several assignments to complete. After lunch, you will have Occlumency. You will practice and prepare for this. Then you will have Arithmancy. I'm well aware that you chose the asinine subject of Divinations instead, but I will not tolerate such nonsense. You will learn only useful things here. After that, you will have more Defense and then free time till dinner. Then you will study in the Library. You are to return to your rooms at nine pm every night and you are to be in bed with the lights out by ten-thirty without exceptions. If you _do_ have a vision, you will tell me immediately, understand?"

Harry nodded mutely, unable to look up.

Snape sniffed above him and turned away. "Finish your dinner, Potter. You will not be having dessert tonight."

He stalked out of the room, using the door behind Harry. It slammed loudly as he left.

For a moment Harry stared mutely down at his plate, green eyes glassy and too moist. Trembling fingers reached up and removed his glasses. Everything looked blurry even with them on anyway.

Flicker, who had watched the entire exchange with wide eyes, crept back to Harry's side, practically twitching in distress. "Little Master . . .?"

Harry randomly selected a fork and began to eat mechanically. Though it was still warm, the previously delicious food now tasted like ashes on his tongue. His stomach roiled in protest as he choked the meal down. A small Elf hand gently rested on his thigh as his manservant tried to comfort him without success.

_"Everything you touch turns to utter ruin, and death and destruction follow you around like a tornado. You leave _nothing_ but disaster in your wake."_

When he was done, Harry downed both the potions without thought.

Far away, on the other side of the table, Snape's food had gone cold.** **

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

There was something running over his chest. It was soft and feathery.

Then something wet and hot pressed down on the hollow of his throat. Harry knew without opening his eyes that it was a mouth. He tried to move, but the effort seemed to be too much and so he remained still and relaxed as pleasant, heady sensations rose and ebbed in him like warm water. Thick, wet, hot and firm, a tongue swiped roughly over his skin as though tasting him. His breath caught in his throat.

"Hush."

He knew the voice but that was unimportant when the mouth found a nipple and latched onto it with numbing ferocity. A hand tended to his left side as his right nipple was nipped and sucked and twisted and ravaged to the point where spots danced behind his closed eyelids.

The mouth withdrew and he moaned faintly as the pleasure/pain abated. His chest was cold for a moment, but then his left nipple was receiving the same treatment the right had gotten, while one of those warm, callused hands soothed the neighboring bruised nub of flesh with gentle strokes. Aching, throbbing pleasure warred with the utterly relaxed feeling in his bones, and had he been capable of it, he would have been writhing. But he couldn't quite seem to move and there was nothing but a hard, painful pleasure in the ministrations of the mouth that made something hot and needy coil up in his belly and forced his sleeping penis to rouse.

By the time the mouth ceased and there were two hands working over his swollen, abused nipples, Harry was a trembling mass in the bed.

Someone chuckled faintly. Breath was close to his ear. It smelled like almonds and something sweet. "Silly little Gryffindor. You're mine now, you know."

And Harry whimpered an agreement because it seemed to be the thing to do at the time and he desperately wanted that hot mouth pressed against his erection. The voice laughed at him again. It was not a kind laugh, but it made Harry moan all the same and he tried to open his eyes. The effort was just too much.

"Do you want more, you stupid boy? Do you want me to touch you . . ." a hand gripped his arousal hard and Harry's hips jerked violently, "here? Like this?"

"_Yes . . ._"

"Do you want me inside you? Do you want me to make you scream?"

"_Yess . . ._"

Then his erection was released and Harry cried out in protest, painfully hard from the hungry voice and the ache radiating from his nipples, but a gentle hand pressed him back down in the unbelievably soft mattress. One of his nipples was tweaked—he couldn't tell which, and it hardly seemed to matter—and a kiss was pressed against his forehead. A hand gently petted him, slowly moving up and down between his legs, and he spread his thighs a bit wider.

The voice seemed to find the act amusing. "No . . . not yet, pet. Not yet. Soon. Go back to sleep."

As one of those hands gently kneaded him through his pajamas bottoms, Harry surrendered to the approaching darkness without protest.** **

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The next morning he awoke with fuzzy recollections of a dream about hands, an aching throughout his chest, and a quiet voice, but he couldn't quite recall what had happened. He mulled it over in silence as Flicker helped him get dressed in preparation for his first lesson. He checked the standing mirror in his room the moment he'd managed to clamber out of bed, but of course there was nothing wrong with his chest. Even when he experimentally prodded at his sternum, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, though his every instinct screamed to him that something was amiss.

The fact that he was also ferociously aroused did not help matters. He simply closed his eyes and tried to think of anything that could possibly kill the sex drive: Filch, Crabbe and Goyle, Snape, Crabbe and Goyle together . . . Flicker watched him curiously, but Harry would be damned if he wanked in front of a House Elf.

Unable to come up with alternatives, the only thing his mind could rest on was Voldemort. The idea sent a pang of fear and homesickness through him as he thought of Hogwarts and wondered if everyone was alright. Such thoughts, however, only made him more agitated about his confinement and the dream. It hadn't _felt_ like a vision, but he didn't know what else could have worked its way through Dreamless Sleep. The experience, coupled with the strangeness of Snape Hall, Snape himself, and Flicker's smothering presence made him feel groggy and bewildered. He was thoroughly outside his element.

As Flicker ushered him off to a lonely breakfast of waffles, fruit, and milk, Harry decided not to tell Snape about the dream. Dumbledore may have trusted the man with Harry's life, but that didn't mean that Harry had to.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Chapter Four: This Bottle of Beast**

_"Now do you know what it means to be punished?"_

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**


	5. This Bottle of Beast

**Thresh  
**- Vain  
06.24.2004

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

**Standard Disclaimer:  
**I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the quotes preceding the chapters come from Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. If you have not read it, take the time and do so. It is an . . . experience.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Voldemort can give Severus the one thing Dumbledore will not: an opportunity. What's a Slytherin to do?

**Warnings: SS/HP slash**, disturbing themes, underaged-ness, violence, mature content, dubious consent, abuse of power over a minor, somnophilia, bondage, improper use of Potions, and some dubious psychological torture.

**Rated: R -** this is the EDITED version; links to the NC-17 version can be found at my profile.

**Notes:** Takes place in the middle of Sixth Year.  
Snape is not a warm, fluffy, insipid sap in this: he is a nasty, sadistic, greasy, arrogant, ego-centric wanker. Welcome to the land of IC.  
This is absolutely, 100 un-related to any of my other fics.  
To facilitate updates, these chapters will be shorter than the chapters in some of my other fics.

This story was originally launched under my secondary pen name, "Hanakai." For convenience's sake, I have decided to streamline my fics under my original pen name, Vain. **_SAME AUTHOR._****_ SAME STORY. DIFFERENT NAME._** As a fic is re-uploaded under my Vain pen name, I will delete it from my Hanakai profile. Eventually, Hanakai will be deleted entirely, so please update your faves and bookmarks to reflect this.

_Thank you_ for all your previous reviews—I saved them all—and I hope you all review again. I'm greedy.

For progress notes on the pen name transition or if you have any questions, please see **my** **Livejournal** (linked both my profiles). I hope this doesn't inconvenience anyone & thank you for your patience.

**Special Thanks** to my betas **Apapazukamori** and **E.E.S.**. WORSHIP these women. This chapter was a fucking typo minefield and they rightfully beat me with the Preposition and Conjunction Sticks. God bless their tolerance for my half-assed attempts at typing. snugs:-) All remaining errors are my own.

**UTERRLY A GIFT** with much love to **EVELIA** who draws me pretty pictures.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**  
Enjoy!

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Chapter Four:  
This Bottle of Beast **

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_""Your attitude to crime is pretty clear to me now, but . . . there are various practical possibilities that make me uneasy! What if some man or youth imagines that he is a Lycurgus or Mahomet—a future one of course—and suppose he begins to remove all obstacles. . . . He has some great enterprise before him and needs money for it . . . and tries to get it . . . do you see?" _

Zametov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise his eyes to him.

"I must admit," he went on calmly, "that such cases certainly must arise. The vain and foolish are particularly apt to fall into that snare; young people especially."

"Yes, you see. Well then?"

"What then?" Raskolnikov smiled in reply; "that's not my fault. So it is and so it always will be. He said just now (he nodded at Razumihin) that I sanction bloodshed. Society is too well protected by prisons, banishment, criminal investigators, penal servitude. There's no need to be uneasy. You have but to catch the thief."

"And what if we do catch him?"

"Then he gets what he deserves."

"You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?"

"Why do you care about that?"

"Simply from humanity."

"If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his punishmentas well as the prison."

"But the real geniuses," asked Razumihin frowning, "those who have the right to murder? Oughtn't they to suffer at all even for the blood they've shed?"

"Why the word ought_? It's not a matter of permission or prohibition. He will suffer if he is sorry for his victim. Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth," he added dreamily, not in the tone of the conversation. "_

Fyodor Dostoevsky  
Crime and Punishment

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_"What is this?" _

A sneer. "Turkish Delight. What do you think it is, Potter? It is ham and potato soup. Now stop poking it and eat it!"

The silver spoon prodded at a pink cube of meat. "It tastes a bit funny . . ."

A withering look across the long dining room table. "I do apologize if the food provided by the House Elves is not up to par. Perhaps you would be more content dining alone in your quarters. I'm sure a week of plain porridge would help correct whatever gustatory impediments you seem to have developed."

Harry shivered, lonely on the far side of the table, and ate his soup in silence.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_H_e was sitting in the armchair in front of the large window in the Blue Room. A book was open on his lap, the title something loopy and indistinguishable in a foreign tongue. His black eyes were squinting slightly in concentration and occasionally his lips moved faintly as though barely mouthing the words. Harry hovered in the doorway just out of the man's line of sight, watching him. Flicker had vanished to wherever it was that he went when his charge had lessons with Snape. It was the only time the Elf was not hovering nearby.

It had only been four days. Four whole days. No word from Hogwarts. No newspaper. No owls. Just four days of nothing but Snape and Flicker. Somehow, though, that seemed like an eternity. Ron, Hermione, and Dumbledore seemed terribly far away, and sometimes—lurching awake in the morning from those disturbing, half-remembered dreams—Harry found that he could no longer picture their faces.

There were no calendars in Snape Hall, and even clocks were few and far between. With Flicker constantly attending to his every need, he didn't need a clock. The Elf would gently shuffle him from one task to the next with a quiet cluck and an occasional tug on his sleeve.

_"It is time for Little Master to shower."_

"It is time for Little Master to dress."

"It is time for Little Master to eat."

"It is time for Little Master to study."

"It is time for Little Master to relax."

"It is time for Little Master to read."

"It is time for Little Master to take his potions."

"It is time for Little Master to sleep."

"It is time for Little Master to bathe."

It was enough to drive a person mad.

After the "incident" at dinner that night, he had only seen Snape during his lessons and at supper, though he had no doubt that Flicker was somehow telling the man everything he did. He was glad that Snape had been MIA, though. Being around the man made something in Harry's stomach clench and rebel and tendrils of cold snake out over all his limbs. Being near Snape . . . Well, it kind of scared Harry.

He was alone, in God only knows where, and was dependent on a person who openly loathed him for food, clothing, and shelter. The awareness that Snape literally held Harry's life in his hands was enough to make the boy feel physically ill. That, and he didn't feel like he'd gotten a good night's sleep since he had arrived.

The dreams seemed omnipresent. Hands touching him. A warm, hungry voice, _saying_ things to him—things that he knew had to be _terrible_. Things that made him feel . . .

Uncomfortable.

There weren't words for it. He woke up feeling hazy and hot and cold all at once. It was kind of the way Snape made him feel, only . . . _antsier_.

Even now, watching Snape, he could feel something insistent pressing against his mind and coiling in his belly. His legs seemed to tingle and there was an indefinable _heat_ that left him feeling constrained and breathless. Watching Snape was like freefalling on a Comet broomstick—he knew something was there to catch him, but had no idea if it would hold. The whole thing just felt _wrong_ to him.

It made him angry.

Snape . . . The man really pissed him off.

"Planning on staring at me all day, Potter?"

The boy jumped at the rich, rolling sound of his host's voice and then immediately berated himself for the movement. Snape was watching him now, face expressionless, but hard black eyes shining with some sort of dark amusement. The boy frowned at the dark amusement he saw there.

He was being laughed at.

Harry _hated_ being laughed at.

Mouth set in a firm, angry line, the Gryffindor entered the room, hating the hesitance he couldn't help but display. Snape rose from his armchair and gestured magnanimously towards a table that had been set up in the center of the room to act as the boy's desk.

The Blue Room was actually a drawing room on the Third Floor of the North Wing. It was about halfway down the hall from the master staircase and the North Turret, which was one of the areas Harry was barred from. True to its name, the Blue Room had a dark blue carpet and all the velvet-covered furniture was a soft, relaxing blue like the waters in the Mediterranean. Even the walls were covered in plain sky blue wallpaper. The ceiling was white and across from the door, the eastern wall was occupied mainly by two large floor-to-ceiling windows. The tables and the bookshelves that lined the wall were all made of aged, polished cherry wood. Countless numbers of books packed the shelves, stacked in all sorts of ways to ensure that they would all fit, and lace doilies and Victorian-era ivory and wood carved figurines were scattered about with carefully orchestrated carelessness. This room served as his classroom.

Harry had never even been in this wing without Snape, let alone in the Blue Room, so he had not yet had time to take a closer look at the figures or the motif of the room. Just as the White Room seemed to have a celestial theme and his bathroom was adorned with horses, so too did all the other rooms seem to have a theme. Women with parasols seemed to be the predominant figurine theme here. And there were more books in this house than he'd ever seen anywhere—and that included Hogwarts.

Hermione would have been in heaven.

That thought alone was enough to depress the boy terribly as he made his way to his "desk" and slumped slightly in the uncomfortable hard-backed chair. He would never again wonder where Snape had learned his impeccable posture—not if he had spent all his childhood in these damnable seats. There was a new book on his desk—_Defense in Combat_—along with a fresh scroll, inkwell, and three quills.

Snape turned back to his book and one of those long, delicate-looking hands rose slightly, supple fingers flicking to the next page in his text. "Turn to page 78 and read chapter three. You have forty-five minutes. I suggest you take notes on any concept you're unclear on."

Harry heaved a heavy sigh and did as he was told without complaint. He carefully placed his wand on the table easily within reach just in case Snape decided to do a practical after the reading. Though it had happened only once before, Harry could still feel the ache in his ribs from a Tickling Charm left on too long when he hadn't been quick enough on the draw. That, and the humiliation of being spelled to laugh till he hyperventilated and passed out was still fresh in his mind. And the whole time, the bastard had just stood over him and watched . . .

After finding the appropriate page, he unrolled his scroll, dipped a quill in the inkwell and pushed his glasses up on his nose. If there was one thing he was going to get out of his imprisonment here, it would be knowledge. In four days it seemed as though he had learned more than he had covered in his entire first four months at Hogwarts. Snape seemed to know exactly what would hold Harry's interest—even if he _was_ an utter bastard when it came to the actual teaching part.

As usual, it did not take long before Harry was utterly lost in the text. Not even Snape's almost imperceptible breathing or the occasional rustle of a page was enough to distract him. The subject matter was fascinating and the author was brilliant, weaving magical theory, history, and anecdotes together so seamlessly that it was simple to forget that this was a textbook. Occasionally Harry's quill would dash across his parchment in rapid, half-attentive script as a certain phrase or name caught his eye, but for the most part he found himself wholly absorbed in the material. This was his favorite kind of lesson: where Snape gave him something interesting and they just sat in silence together. Harry could almost forget that the man hated him then or— better yet—that the Potions Master was there at all.

It was almost a disappointment, then, when a sharp rap on his desk startled him from his reading. He hadn't even noticed that he'd begun on chapter four. The young man looked up, startled by Snape's sudden proximity—when had the man gotten up?—and a dull, familiar resentment coiled inside him at the sight of the professor. He blinked and leaned back slightly in his chair.

Snape noticed the move, but did not comment on it. Instead, he eyed his charge almost lazily, watching Harry with an intensity that made the boy flush inexplicably. "What is the counter to Eptum?"

Harry thought for a moment, determined not to be unnerved by the feel of Snape's eyes boring into his skin. "The Reflect Ward . . .?" His voice lilted a bit at the end, dragging the word out into a question.

For a moment, something flashed in Snape's dark gaze, but his expression settled into grudging acceptance before Harry could quite pin the look down. "Passable," he grunted, looking thoroughly annoyed with the admission.

Harry breathed an audible sigh of relief and looked back down at the book in front of him. He wondered if he'd be allowed to continue reading it outside of his lessons. Some of the books in the Hall—a lot of them, in fact—were strictly off-limits.

Harry jumped as a thin-fingered, stained hand suddenly landed on the page he'd been looking at. He forced his gaze upward to look into Snape's eyes. The Potions Master's dark eyes bored into him. "What is the matter with you today, boy? You've been twitchy all through your lessons."

Harry dropped his eyes to stare at the contrast of that stained hand against the aged, yellow of the parchment. He mumbled something under his breath.

The hand suddenly rose and gripped Harry's chin, forcing the youth to look up, and the Gryffindor instantly recoiled, pushing his seat back with a loud scrape. Snape smirked and Harry looked down, ashamed of his reaction. His hands, he saw, were balled into tight fists in his lap.

"Cat got your tongue?" the older man taunted.

His knuckles turned white.

"I said I haven't been sleeping well." Harry looked down at the blue carpet nervously, and then his eyes darted to the bookshelves of the drawing room-turned-classroom. He looked anywhere but at his professor. "I wake up in the morning feeling . . . nervous. Upset. Like I had a nightmare, but can't remember it."

"Hmmm . . ." The Potions Master watched the boy critically for a moment, absently drumming the fingers of his left hand on the table that served as Harry's desk. The teen squirmed slightly beneath his gaze. "That is merely a side affect of the potions. It will fade in time. Your body merely needs to adjust."

The man turned, robes flaring out dramatically, and stalked towards the bookshelves that dominated the northern wall. "I do not believe that you have adequately mastered the theory of the—"

"It's the room, too!" the boy blurted out before he could restrain himself.

Snape froze. The man turned slowly, peering down his considerable nose at his charge. "Are the accommodations unsatisfactory for the _great_ Harry Potter?" The scorn in his voice was like a living thing.

Harry felt his cheeks heat in anger. "It's not like that! That place . . . It makes me feel uncomfortable. I keep getting all these headaches and sometimes I feel like there's someone else in there or something." His mouth tightened. "It—there's something off about it . . ."

Snape turned to glare bitterly at his ward, hands on his hips and a dark, ugly sneer twisting his thin lips. "Is there anything else that does not suit your taste? The food? Or maybe the décor of the Library? Perhaps you would like musical accompaniment with dinner? Or maybe a mint on your pillow every night?"

Harry stood, chair scraping awkwardly against the carpet, and he trembled slightly with anger. "Why do you have to be so cruel? I'm just saying, I don't feel like I belong in there—"

Dark eyes narrowed and all the expression drained from Snape's face. He took a single deliberate step towards the boy and regarded him with a look of utter contempt. "I do not know what sort of accommodations you are used to, Potter, nor do I care. I have gone through no small amount of difficulty in preparing my home to receive you and will not do so again. Your rooms will remain where they are. Be thankful I've provided you with rooms at all."

The Gryffindor swallowed heavily, but refused to back down. "Then I'm going to stop taking the potion," he challenged. His eyes flashed darkly and he took a step around the table to stand before his host. "It makes me feel like a zombie immediately after I take it and I don't like going to bed drugged every night."

"Not even you are that much of a fool," Snape hissed derisively. "I do not spend three hours every weekend making that drivel just because I enjoy it, Potter. Why don't you simply dress yourself in wrapping paper and go stand in Knockturn Alley with the words 'Cannon Fodder' written on your forehead? You will continue taking that potion, even if I have to order Flicker to tie you to your bed and dump it down your throat every night!"

"I won't!" Harry cried furiously. He took another brave step forward as though the motion could force Snape to concede. "I don't even need the potions! Dumbledore taught me well enough. I won't do it and I _won't_ be treated like this!" his green eyes flashed brightly and his face twisted in anger and frustration. "I hate you! I _hate you!_ The way you treat me isn't right and when the Headmaster hears of this—"

The force of the blow made stars explode in front of Harry's eyes and it was only after he realized he was falling that he heard and truly _felt_ the loud _crack_ of Snape's hand striking his cheek. The boy fell to the carpeted floor hard, and all of the breath left his body in a rushed gasp. He stared straight ahead at the blurry legs of a distant table for a moment, stunned. His glasses lay on the floor in front of him.

Suddenly, the swaying hem of dark robes obscured his line of sight and Harry shrank back reflexively. The motion was aborted, however, when a strong hand gripped the back of the teen's head, jerking painfully at his short hair, and forced him to look up. Snape was nothing more than a blurry shadow.

A puff of almond scented breath grazed his cheek. "I do not know whether to be infuriated or disappointed." The suppressed rage in the Potions Master's voice was almost as painful as the grip on his hair. "I have given you clear rules—" the hand pulled up, forcing his head back and then pulling the boy to his feet. Instinctively, Harry gripped at the wrist holding him up, but his efforts were wholly futile. "—but _you_," the man continued, "have been entirely uncooperative. I have been more than patient."

Harry struggled to breath, hyperventilating, and tried to wrench himself free in panic. His efforts were rewarded with a harsh shake. Tears sprang to his eyes and a sharp cry finally burst from his lips, freeing his voice.

"L—let me—"

Snape shook him again, wrenching his neck in an agonizing way, and began to pull the boy towards the door. "Be silent, Potter! I will tolerate your insolence and second guessing no more!"

Harry stumbled as he was dragged from the room and clutched desperately at the hand in his hair in an attempt to alleviate the pain. Images of all the horrid things that Snape could do to him flashed before his eyes and some tiny part of him couldn't help but wonder if he shouldn't have just kept his mouth shut.

The Potions Master dragged the struggling youth behind him by the hair, pulling him out of the Blue Room and down the hallway. Even if he had had his glasses, Harry wouldn't have been able to see where they were headed. Bent nearly double and tripping over his own feet, the only thing Harry could focus on was the whipping hemline of Snape's robes and trying not to fall down. He had no doubt that his host would continue dragging him by his hair, even if he _were_ on the floor.

His fingernails scratched haphazardly at Snape's hand, just barely breaking the skin, and with every step, a sharp cry left his lips as they moved down the corridor at a brisk pace that forced Harry into a faltering run.

"_Let me **go**, you bastard!_"

"You will be silent, Mr. Potter. I have had quite enough of your cheek."

"You're _hurting_ me!"

"You brought this on yourself," the man retorted in a cool voice. They passed the Master Stairs, but the only way Harry knew was because of the change in lighting.

Harry tried to dig in his heels, but the act only resulted in a particularly cruel tug on his hair. Something like terror welled up in him, almost overpowering him, and the teen shrieked and redoubled his furious clawing at his professor's grip. "Let me _**go**!_"

Abruptly the older man stopped, releasing his hold on the boy, and Harry ran right into his back and bounced off. He landed on the floor with a grunt of surprise and would have fled had Snape not grabbed his upper arm in a vice-like grip and dragged him back the instant Harry was on his feet again. He jerked the boy close, pressing the smaller body against his own, and a hand snaked around Harry's waist just before the man pushed him forward, slamming him face-first into a black, grainy wooden surface that he couldn't focus on.

Harry instinctively turned his head and his bruised cheek hit the wood hard, aggravating the pain from where Snape had struck him. He could feel the weight of the man around him and behind him—the scent of citrus, blood, chemicals, almonds, and dusty books overwhelming and ensnaring his senses. He gasped at the sheer molten _pressure_ of the professor's body pressed tightly to his own and familiar heat coiled inside him, forcing a whimper from his lips as it slid from his belly to his thighs, and his previously lax cock twitched in alarming, horrifying interest.

Something hot and wet slid down the cheek pressed to the wood and he choked a bit at the feel of Snape's hand at his waist _rubbing_ his hip ever so slightly.

"Let—"

"Be silent," the man hissed in his ear in an almost desperate tone. "I _told_ you to behave, didn't I? I told you—"

Suddenly the Potions Master stopped and his free hand reached for something, pressing his body impossibly closer to Harry's. There was a rattling sound, the clatter of a key slipping into a lock and a doorknob being turned. Snape's lips brushed against the fragile shell of his captive's ear and his voice suddenly sounded much calmer. "You're just going to have to learn the hard way—just like I did."

Then abruptly the door Harry had been pressed against—because it was indeed a door—flew open. The boy yelped in shock as the arm that had restrained him vanished and he was pushed forward into fathomless darkness. His arms flew out to brace his fall and he cringed as the door slammed shut, casting him into blackness. Harry curled, eyes squeezed shut, and it took him a moment to realize that, despite the fact that he had felt like he was falling—knew he _should_ be falling—he was not. In fact, he was _floating_.

A violent shudder went through him and the teen opened his eyes carefully, squinting into nothingness. There was absolutely no light. Quite literally, all he could see before him was blackness. Experimentally, the Gryffindor straightened his body and extended his arms to see if there was anything around him. When he met no resistance, he slowly began to bring his right hand up to his face, blinking rapidly as he tried in vain to make out the outline of his hand in the darkness. As a result, he nearly poked himself in the eye when his hand came to rest over his face. He held his eyes open, feeling the butterfly press of his eyelashes brushing his fingers, and stared incredulously. He _knew_ he should be able to see his hand. He knew it. But still all he could see was darkness.

Trembling slightly, his hand fell away from his face. What was this place?

The feel of magic was in the air, oppressive and cloying, and he turned slowly, unable to quite orient himself. Where ever he was, the magic that had been worked on this place was old and powerful. And . . . unpleasant.

With a slight shudder at the dark echoes around him, the boy wrapped his arms around his waist and kicked his feet almost absently. His face and skull hurt where Snape had struck him and pulled his hair, and a headache throbbed behind his eyes. He sighed heavily and squeezed his eyes shut. "This is—"

Harry stopped abruptly and his eyes snapped open. There was no sound. Slowly, he brought his hand back up to rest gently on his throat. "Aaaaaaaaaa . . ."

Though he could feel the vibration beneath his fingertips, no sound reached his ears. His Adam's apple bobbed beneath his fingers as he swallowed hard. He wrapped his arms about his waist again and curled into a ball, as though that act would protect him from the malicious magic he could feel.

He did not like this place.

"Snape?" It could have been a whisper or a shout, but he couldn't tell for the silence.

He did not like this place at all.

Harry closed his eyes and thought hard about the Great Hall and Quidditch, but the memories were hazy and slipped away until only nonexistent birthdays and days in the cupboard beneath the stairs remained. He took a deep shaky breath in an attempt to center himself and calm the pounding in his temples. _Locked in the cupboard again. Alright. I can handle this. This is old hat, Potter._

He inhaled again, the motion stifled by a hard, dull pain in his throat and chest. The air was too cool.

_I can handle this._

He concentrated hard on breathing.

_I can handle this._

Time seemed to pass slowly and it seemed to get harder and harder to breathe every minute. Eventually, his hand somehow drifted up to cover his mouth until he was dragging deep, soundless gasps in between his fingers. His head and his throat throbbed fiercely, making it even more difficult to breathe.

It started as a cold prickling on his skin—a feeling something akin to tiny insects crawling on him. Harry shivered, although he really wasn't cold, and stared out into the darkness, straining his ears for a sound that wouldn't come. After a few moments, the boy shifted uncomfortably, rubbing at his arms and stretching out his body. Then the crawling feeling progressed to itching.

It was a curious feeling—like eyes moving over his skin or a chill puff of breath at the nape of his neck. Whispers that were just out of hearing range or the sensation you get when you look at someone just in time to see them avert their eyes. It was as though all of the anxiety and discomfort that Harry had felt during second, fourth, and fifth year—when people alternately thought him the Heir of Slytherin, or a cheater, or mad—had been condensed into a sold, tangible force that now pressed against his skin in the dark and pawed at him with cold, tearing claws.

Uncomfortable, the boy slowly started to twitch and twist and writhe, brushing at his arms and legs with an almost compulsive absent-mindedness. Abruptly he stilled with a muffled sound that he felt but did not hear, and closed his eyes tightly, clenching his jaw until his teeth felt locked together.

There was no one in here but him.

He _knew_ he was alone, no matter how cold he felt inside or how _pressing_ the feeling of eyes on him was.

He _**knew**_ he was alone.

_I can handle this._

Unsteady hands rose again and clamped over his mouth as though the act could keep the hollowness he felt in his stomach at bay. He could feel the air dragging over his fingers in silent, nasal pants as he tried to calm himself. He thought he saw flashes of light dancing behind his eyelids and his skin felt as though it was pulled far, far too tight at the temples.

_I can handle this. I can handle this._

Harry pulled short gasps of air in and out of his lungs a bit faster and scrubbed anxiously at his legs as the crawling/clawing sensation grew. The air seemed to get thinner and it felt like _something_ was moving over his skin. Like small tentacles, or thousands of tiny feet running over his body.

They were _on_ him.

Panic welled up in the boy and he uncurled from his fetal ball to begin rubbing frantically at his arms and legs—anywhere he could reach. He scrubbed his hands over his face vigorously and clawed at the phantoms in his hair. He scratched at his throat and felt the vibrations of voiceless cries there, before he began to pull desperately at his clothing, jerking at his robes until fabric tore noiselessly and he was pulling frantically at his own skin. Thin, bitten-down nails scratched at exposed flesh and his face burned and stung when a frantic hand swiped desperately at the pulling prickling of his skin.

The Gryffindor felt a tearing, pulling sensation in the back of his throat and would have worried that he was silently screaming with such power that it hurt, except for the fact that hideous crawling was _everywhere_ now and something was touching him and he had to get out of here and where was Snape _let me out let me OUT Snape Snape SnapeSnapeSnapeSnapeSnapeSnapeSnapeSnapeLETMEOUT_ and there was no air and _Ican'tbreathe_ and _it's**TOUCHING**me_ and _SnapeletmeoutpleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseI'msorry—_

Gravity reasserted itself with violent brilliance as a door opened and the world was suddenly filled with light and sound and heat and Harry hit the floor barely a second after his own shrieks reached his ears. The impact knocked the air from his body painfully and his head cracked painfully against a hard floor, prompting his body to spasm and jerk painfully as he choked on his aborted scream. The rectangle of interminable brilliance that was the door was suddenly broken by a man's black silhouette and Harry cringed away in terror.

Everything hurt.

But then the man was next to him and he smelled like citrus and almonds and dark, warm things that were not this terrible room and the man's voice washed over him in sultry, insulating waves.

_"I told you, Potter. Didn't I tell you? You have to learn . . ."_

But the words meant nothing to him and when a firm, gentle hand cupped the back of his head to pull Harry up slightly, all he could do was sob in painful, mortifying relief that that terrible _feeling_ was gone. A vial was pressed against his lips as the man continued to murmur chastising nonsense and Harry swallowed it. Whatever it was, it was warm and chocolaty and instantly the aching in his body and the painful stinging in his fingertips ceased.

_"Stupid boy. See what you've done to yourself?"_

But Harry couldn't answer and the last thing he knew was the foreign feeling of someone holding him close and lifting him up in the air as blissful, natural darkness overtook him.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

The first time Harry woke up, he knew he was not dreaming. He was in the White Room and Snape was with him, sitting on his bed next to him and smoothing a warm, soothing cream into the burning scratches on his chest. A pleasant, warm lethargy seemed to have settled into the teen's bones and his eyelids felt heavy. Unable to move, Harry watched the man—studied his face long and hard. It was not an attractive face; there was too much anger stamped into the lines around his eyes and his mouth was too hard. Snape's lips were too thin and his skin too sallow. His hair was greasy and his teeth were yellowed and noticeably crooked.

His hands, though, were gentle and felt incredibly good, and the fire that Harry felt on his skin seemed to vanish the moment the man touched him. And—oddly enough—the strangest expression twisted the older man's face: sorrow and bitterness and a look so intense and indefinable that Harry's lips parted in surprise.

He must have made a noise of some sort then, because Snape looked up at him, dark eyes burning with an overwhelming fire. It occurred to Harry absently that even the man's body was hot, venting heat like some sort of living furnace, as though whatever burned inside of him was too intense to be contained. The darkness he saw in those eyes, though, made him think of that horrid room and he suddenly began to shake and would have struggled to sit up if he had had the strength. A trembling breath caught in his throat and Harry turned away from the professor's gaze.

Snape laid a gentle hand directly on Harry's sternum and his palm felt hot and slightly slick with ointment. For a moment they both remained still as the teen desperately tried to compose himself and force down the memory of that place and why he had all these scratches and the reason his head was aching painfully. After several long minutes punctuated only by Harry's uneven breath, the Potions Master's hand slowly and deliberately slid up his ward's chest and past his collarbone to gently grab Harry's chin. Wide green eyes turned back to now-shuttered black ones and the boy exhaled heavily.

Snape watched him carefully for a minute, judging. "Now do you know what it means to be punished?"

Chapped, dry lips parted to answer the question, but when only silence was forthcoming yet another vial of potion was pressed to his lips. Harry accepted it without complaint, hating the man who gave it to him, but perversely thankful for his presence. He was cold and Snape was incredibly warm. He was hurting and those impossibly efficient hands soothed that pain. His eyes fluttered shut and he relaxed into his pillows as Snape began to treat the scratches on his abdomen.

Harry was . . .

Confused.

But Snape was here.

And if Snape was here, then he was not alone.

Warm hands massaged his stomach, smoothing on more ointment, and the last thought Harry was capable of focusing on was how desperately he wanted to cry, but Snape was there, and that was somehow incredibly comforting.

Confusing, but comforting.** **

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Chapter Five: The Mark of a Man

_"Some wild things cannot be tamed, boy. Remember that when next you see fit to take something that is not yours."_** **

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	6. The Mark of a Man

**_Thresh  
_**- Vain  
06.24.2004

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o  
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**

**Standard Disclaimer:  
**I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the quotes preceding the chapters come from Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. If you have not read it, take the time and do so. It is an . . . experience.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Voldemort can give Severus the one thing Dumbledore will not: an opportunity. What's a Slytherin to do?

**Warnings: SS/HP slash**, disturbing themes, underaged-ness, violence, mature content, dubious consent, abuse of power over a minor, somnophilia, bondage, improper use of Potions, and dubious psychological torture.  
**Rated: NC-17**

**Notes:** Takes place in the middle of Sixth Year.  
Snape is not a warm, fluffy, insipid sap in this: he is a nasty, sadistic, greasy, arrogant, ego-centric wanker. Welcome to the land of IC.  
This is absolutely, 100 un-related to any of my other fics.  
To facilitate updates, these chapters will be shorter than the chapters in some of my other fics.

**Translation note:** Regarding the word "_duco_," when I double checked it, I found the following definitions: **duco**: to calculate, count, reckon, esteem, considered; **duco**: to charm, influence, mislead, draw in; **duco**: to draw, shape, construct/ (time) spend, delay; **duco**: to lead on the march, marry a wife, command; **duco**: to lead, draw, esteem, consider. One of my betas left me the following note: "Admittedly, I have been letting my already very incomplete knowledge of Latin go to seed a little, but for "_to command_," shouldn't it be "_ducere_?" Also, I thought it only had to do with marriage as part of an idiom. "_Ducere in matrimonium_" or something like that." Now, I know even less latin than my betas, but I'm going to stick with what I wrote. If this is erroneous, I apologize and tip my hat to my beta (who is probably correct). 3  
For reference, I use this as my primary Latin dictionary: http/humanum.arts.

**Regarding Updates:** I _do_ have a life away from my laptop and it tends to be extremely time consuming. While I LOVE reviews and feedback, harrassing me for updates is a sure-fire way to ensure that I get disgusted with the entire fic and don't work on it. Please do NOT pressure me excessively for updates. I don't mind things like "_Please update soon!_" or "_I can't wait for the next chapter!_" (I actually find them very flattering), but I do not like mildly insulting reviews on how I "should" be spending my time. When weighed against getting a degree, working, paying tuition, and taking care of my self and my family, fanfiction will always come last in my life.

**Special Thanks** to my betas **Apapazukamori** and **E.E.S.** snugs:-) All remaining errors are my own.

**This fic is UTERRLY A GIFT** with much love to **EVELIA** who draws me pretty pictures.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**  
Enjoy!

  
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**Chapter Five:  
The Mark of a Man**

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""In short, I maintain that all great men or even men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word, must from their very nature be criminals--more or less, of course. Otherwise it's hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that. The same thing has been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it's somewhat arbitrary, but I don't insist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my leading idea that men are in general_ divided by a law of nature into two categories, inferior (ordinary), that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to utter _a new word_. There are, of course, innumerable sub-divisions, but the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men conservative in temperament and law-abiding; they live under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their duty to be controlled, because that's their vocation, and there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second category all transgress the law; they are destroyers or disposed to destruction according to their capacities. The crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood—that depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It's only in that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article (you remember it began with the legal question). There's no need for such anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more or less), and in doing so fulfill quite justly their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or less). The first category is always the man of the present, the second the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it, the second move the world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact, all have equal rights with me—and _vive la guerre éternelle_—till the New Jerusalem, of course!"_

in generala new wordvive la guerre éternelle 

_"Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?"_

_"I do," Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these words and during the whole preceding tirade he kept his eyes on one spot on the carpet._

_"And . . . and do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity."_

_"I do," repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry._

_"And . . . do you believe in Lazarus' rising from the dead?"_

_"I . . . I do. Why do you ask all this?"_

_"You believe it literally?"_

_"Literally." "  
_

**

  
_Fyodor Dostoevsky  
_Crime and Punishment

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**

_Harry dreamed. _

He dreamed of the Ministry building—the long ivory halls streaked and damaged from a battle recently past—filled with people in somber black robes, herding white-clad aurors and ornately dressed politicians before them. As they passed, Harry tried to catch their eyes, but a gentle tug on his left elbow made him quicken his pace. Startled, he looked up and was surprised to see himself looking at Severus Snape's sharp profile. The Potions Master met his gaze and his hard face softened almost imperceptibly in concern.

"Are you well, Harry?"

Harry's lips parted, but no sound left them. His scar seemed to burn dully. Severus paused and then gently drew him towards the wall, out of the main walkway. A shockingly ginger hand cupped Harry's cheek, but rather than be bewildered by the treatment, the Gryffindor found the touch incredibly comforting. He sighed and found himself leaning heavily against the Professor's chest as arms wrapped 'round his waist.

"Severus . . ."

The older man leaned down slightly and pressed gentle kiss was to the top of his head. "It will be alright."

The teenager gripped the lapels of his guardian's dress robes tight in his fists, as though holding onto the man would allow him to retain the moment in his memory. Try as he may, however, he would not remember the dream upon waking.

**

  
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_T_he half-blood Tom Riddle, known to all and sundry as The Dark Lord Voldemort, settled back comfortably in one of the overstuffed chairs in Severus's private study. He sighed at the feel of the fabric before turning to his companion. "How have you fared thus far?" His strangely sibilant voice sounded small and airy in the large room.

His host turned from the mantle and, holding the glasses of cognac he'd prepared, walked over to the Dark Lord to hand him one. A slight frown marred the man's already bitter-looking face as Voldemort accepted the glass. Red eyes watched the Potions Master avidly.

"I have placed him in the White Room. It has well proven its usefulness throughout the ages. Nonetheless, he is strong. He is attempting to resist."

Voldemort made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and fortified himself with a hearty swallow of liquor. It scorched his throat, like breathing in spice. His eyes fixed on the broad lip of the glass and his serpentine, lipless mouth twisted into something that vaguely resembled a smile. "I am ssure," the dark wizard murmured, slightly exaggerating the "s" sound.

Severus's sharp, dark eyes flickered to Voldemort and he stopped on his way to his own chair. "I will succeed, my Lord." His lips drew into a harsh, thin line and he set his own glass down on the coffee table that sat between them. His dark eyes glittered almost eerily. "Of that you may be certain."

A dark chuckle answered him as the man sat stiffly in the chair next to his Master's and it was plainly obvious that Severus was irritated. Amused, Voldemort watched the younger wizard for a moment and he bared his sharp teeth at him in a parody of a smile. "You are impertinent, Severus."

If anything, the Professor became even more rigid. "For—"

"You have always been impertinent," the elder said, dismissing the unhappy apology with a casual wave of his unnaturally large hand. "It is part of your peculiar . . ." a hiss of laughter, lightly tinged with malice ". . . '_charm_'."

Severus resolutely fixed his eyes on the merrily crackling fireplace in front of them and retrieved his drink. He made no effort to hide his dour expression. "Indeed."

More hissing laughter. Severus watched the fire sourly as a log split in two with a loud _crack_.

"You will succeed," Voldemort resumed after a moment in a conversational tone of voice, "or both your lives will be forfeit."

Severus nodded, his features schooling themselves once more into their usual mask. That had been their arrangement when Voldemort had given him permission to embark on this . . . task.

One of the ends of the cracked log slid down the pile and clattered against its burning brethren.

"Tell me of your progress then. It has been . . . a week, yesss? I have sensed little change in him."

Severus took a slow sip of cognac before setting the glass on the table between them again. "Yes. I kept him asleep on his first full day here, as well as the third and fifth. Allowing him to wake only every other day will be most effective, I think. Many of the initial changes must take place subconsciously and the boy has always been particularly vulnerable in his sleep. The sleeping potions work well, but his will is not very malleable—I may have to increase the dosage of _Invitus Inclino_ that Fiddle has been cooking into his dinner. I have managed to distill the _Esurio_ potion into both a salve and a mild incense that I have found to be very effective. Ever since I tailored it to suit him, he has proven to be most receptive, though as yet, he cannot seem to quite place the nature of his desire. Thus far, gentle physical persuasion as he sleeps appears to be effective, however, the process will be time consuming."

Red eyes narrowed darkly. "How time consuming? I do not need to remind you how very much hinges on your success, do I, Ssseverus?"

Severus turned slightly and bowed his head, although whether it was a gesture of submission, acknowledgement, or both was anyone's guess. "No, my Lord." He raised his eyes again and looked strangely contemplative. "Nevertheless, the process cannot be rushed if you would like the results to be assured. Already his behavior is changing, even if such changes are occurring slowly. To ensure their permanence and his compliance, they must occur slowly. If there is too much of a disparity between the behaviors he expects of me and the way he believes that he himself should be acting, he will attempt to reject the treatments. As it is, he fights without being aware of it." The man retrieved his glass and turned back to the fire. "He has a most defined sense of self and order, our Mr. Potter. Training him to reorganize those things will be difficult and must be done carefully."

The Dark Lord watched his servant carefully for a long moment as shadows danced around the room. Waiting had never been his forte, nor patience his particular skill. Nevertheless, if Severus's plans succeeded, the benefits would far outweigh whatever inconvenience this delay might cause. _If_ Severus's plan succeeded. Burning red eyes turned back to the fire and his thin, almost non-existent lips twitched towards a sneer.

Putting all of his eggs in the Potions Master's proverbial basket did not sit well with Voldemort—especially not when Severus Snape changed his affiliations as easily as a summer breeze changed directions. Even if Harry Potter could be used as a leash to bind the man, Snape was not someone to be trusted. Voldemort's eyes narrowed as he thought back to the repeated accusations against the man, as well as Severus's less than helpful behavior during Potter's first year.

"You are making progress, then . . ." Voldemort murmured to the flames, "and yet you seem . . . dissatisfied."

"He is . . . stubborn." Severus scowled. "Occasionally I find myself vexed by him. Yesterday afternoon I was compelled to . . . _discipline_ him." He enunciated the word 'discipline' very carefully, as though it was unpleasant on his lips. "He has been sleeping ever since then."

"Mmmm . . ." Long, skeletal fingers tapped against his glass as the Dark Lord stared at the fire with unseeing eyes. "He has not noticed that he is missing time?"

A nasty smile twisted Severus's lips and he turned slightly to look at the man who had once been his mentor. "No. Nor will he until it is no longer a matter of consequence. I have been very careful to keep him isolated from anything that could damage my efforts. Though things are still in the initial phases, soon he will be entering a very delicate stage, during which time he could very easily be upset. After that, though, you will be free to move against the Ministry and Hogwarts. Until his memories have completely eroded and been cleared of extraneous information, it could prove to be difficult to control him, should you choose to act early."

Voldemort turned and gave Severus an appraising look, his eyes shining dangerously in the dim lighting. "You have taken great care to preserve the boy's health and keep him relatively intact. If I did not know you better, Severus, I would almost be tempted to say that you have come to _care_ for this creature."

Not a muscle twitched in the other man's face as he slowly turned to face his "master." Blank of any expression, the Potions Master cocked his head ever so slightly to the side and his oily hair fell into his face. "He is mine, is he not?"

"Yes. So I have promised . . ." Voldemort's eyes narrowed dangerously as he stood firm in the battle of wills between them. ". . . dependent on your success, of course." The threat in his voice was barely hidden.

Severus did not back down. "Then it is my own prerogative what I do with my things."

The two stared at one another for a long, long moment. The fire ate at the wood in the hearth, suffusing the room with heat and sound and eerie, flickering, red-yellow light. The weak illumination ate at the shadows, danced, and then retreated again. The war between light and dark cast both men's already cruel faces into an even deeper darkness.

Brown, almost black, eyes narrowed, irises and pupils restricted to two tiny points of umber against white, white sclera. Severus felt his face harden. Voldemort's resurrection had changed him. Though still brilliant and undeniably mad, there was a deviousness that had been lacking in his previous regime. Before, the Dark Lord had been content with stroke and counterstroke—like shifting pieces on a chessboard. Now, however, that no longer seemed to be enough. Harry Potter had changed that. The boy was the crux of it all—the winch on which the entire war would pivot. Severus knew that. Albus knew that. Voldemort knew that. Everyone knew that except Harry Potter. Whoever wielded the boy would win the war.

Potter's heritage, his inflexibility, his overwhelming importance . . . It was all like a drug—one that Severus couldn't help but consume again and again. He wanted to own the boy—wreck him until he was fit for no one but Severus himself—possess and devour him until the two of them were indivisible. He _craved_ Harry Potter. Everything from the faint swell of the boy's hips to the angry flash of those jade eyes, the barely restrained swell of power when those cheeks flushed with rage, the way the boy panted when he was aroused and desperate for some sort—any sort—of completion; he wanted it all. Those dark, hard pupils seemed to shine. And he _would have it_.

Across from him, Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the man who remained—for all intents and purposes—his servant. It was not a concession, merely an acknowledgement of the other man's refusal to yield. Had Voldemort been any other man, it would have been an acceptance of equality . . . But Voldemort was not any other man.

For a few moments more, the two stared at one another, veiled animosity heavy in the air. Then, the Dark Lord reclined in his seat and, still maintaining eye contact, smiled gracelessly at his host. "Be careful Severus. You go too far."

Severus's spine stiffened, but he looked away. He knew when to stop pushing. If he had not, he would have been dead by now. He turned back to the fire, forced to content himself with watching the real flames as opposed to the ones burning within the Dark Lord. ". . . Forgive me, my lord."

The heat seemed overwhelming and the younger man retrieved his cognac and took a slow sip, despite the fact that he knew it would provide him with no relief. He licked a faint trace of alcohol off his upper lip as false heat coiled through him. "Give me the boy," he murmured to the flames, "and I will deliver you your war, my Lord."

"Your lord." Voldemort sneered at his companion and gripped his glass tighter than necessary. "You should not play with fire, Ssseverus."

The other man turned away from the flames and regarded Voldemort with dark, hooded eyes.

Voldemort smirked. "But, obviously, thiss child means a good deal to you. I would even ssay he iss dear to you . . ."

The implication made the heavy, overheated air between them seem even thicker—almost solid with the weight of potential.

"You underssstand therefore," the Dark Lord continued, "that if I ssense even a _hint_ of treachery from you, I will be forced to act against him. He is, after all, helpless, is he not? Any mental defenses that he may have developed against me would prove to be an impediment to your ends."

A muscle in the other man's cheek jumped wildly as he clenched his jaw. "I _will_ deliver you this war, my Lord Voldemort." _And you will leave me and mine in peace._

Voldemort turned back to the flames, his unnatural eyes distant and shadowed. "Excellent. Mudblood or not, the boy would make a formidable brood mare."

Something indefinable danced over the Potions Master's face for an instant and immediately vanished, but Voldemort noticed anyway.

He turned back to the other man and offered another, nasty smile. "Do not fret, Severus." The Dark Lord looked amused by his servant's apparent displeasure. "I have no intention of poaching your plaything from you, nor will anyone else's interest be tolerated. I have promised you that the boy will be yours and yours alone and Lord Voldemort keeps his promises."

Severus stared at the other man for a moment and then turned away. _Me and mine in peace_. "Thank you, my Lord."

"I expect many children from you, though." The dark wizard watched the other man critically. "You have been childless for far too long and potential Snape-Potter progeny are far too valuable to our cause to allow you both to go to waste."

Severus nodded, weary of both the conversation and the company. He stared back down into his glass and suddenly wished he were alone.

The Dark Lord watched the flames as he spoke, mind on the future and the promise of things to come. "You may have your pet then, Severus. But do not fail me, and _do not_ disappoint me." He placed the half full glass of cognac back on the table and rose. There was too much to do to suffer Snape's company a moment longer. His robes whispered around his ankles as he moved towards the flames. "Should your theories regarding Potter prove to be as sound as your other judgments, I would very much hate to lose the alliance and service of both the boy and my Potions Master."

He stepped into the enormous hearth, apparently untouched by the flames, and stared back at his Potions Masters from amidst the fire and heat. "Do _not_ disappoint me, Sseverus."

Then Voldemort vanished in a vague, carbon-scented flash, his parting words hanging heavily in the air. Severus stared into the flames for a long time after both had finally vanished. The clock in the corner chimed loudly, ringing out eleven perfect tones and breaking the Potions Master's concentration. Against the arm of his chair, Severus clenched his right hand into a fist and stared down into his glass as though the golden-amber held the answers he sought.

. . . He would have what he wanted.

The glass slid out of his fingers and dropped to the floor with a dull flat noise. Cognac splashed up against his robes and onto his boots and soaked into the expensive carpeting at his feet. He did not notice.

As the fire continued to dance and the grandfather clock continued to tick, he did not notice anything at all.

**

  
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You are sleeping. Long, gangly limbs sprawled carelessly on the mattress. Your head is tilted back, granting me free access to that soft, delectable neck, and I press the advantage, nipping the skin with just enough pressure to leave a small, red mark. You taste of sweat and potions and aged, faded pain. It is easier to think with you asleep. Through the open buttons of your shirt, your right nipple is soft and responsive beneath the fingers of my right hand. I want to kiss you—claim those rouged, pouty, sullen lips with demanding, vicious, biting affection—but that is something that will have to wait.

I will be patient. I can do that.

If I can sacrifice, then I can wait as well.

_"Give me the boy and I will deliver you your war."_

I can wait.

The curtains are open and the moonlight pours into the room, reflecting and refracting off of the crystals hanging overhead. The runes on the wall glow silver, humming with power, weaving their spell around you. My spell. The spell of all the Snape heirs. This room is the bridal chamber—the White Room. As I lay on my side next to you and stare at you in the moon-diluted darkness, it seems fitting. White suits you—softens you.

I am softening you.

Slowly. Day by day. Potion by potion. Hour by hour.

You reached out to me when I opened the door to that room. The old room. The Dark Room. You were huddled on the floor, clawing at phantoms, tearing yourself apart, and then I came and you reached out for me. I wanted to push you away, but couldn't. Is this what my predecessors faced, I wonder, when setting up their reluctant mates in the bridal rooms? I've allowed you to be ignorant of it all—my gift to you.

This room is what used to be called a Duco Chamber. Duco is a Latin word—it means both 'to command' and 'to wed a wife.' In Snape Hall—and in most purebred families—the two are very closely linked. In the old days, a mate coming into this room would know what it meant: she would be twisted, bound to yield to her husband—to love him—even if she could find no cause of it.

I am twisting you.

I wish I could see their faces. Black. Potter. Lupin. Even Lily . . . Ever helpful, impossibly pure Lily . . . I want to watch them twist as I twist you. I want to watch them all twist the way _they twisted me_.

_"Now do you know what it means to be punished?"_

No.

When I am done, you will know nothing but what I allow you to know. A tame ball of light, clutched in my hand. Grasped in my fist.

I release a slow, trembling breath next to your pulse, and then recline slightly to rest my head on your chest. Your heart thunders furiously beneath my ear, reminding me of a small bird . . . Of a bluejay.

During my youth, I used to range the woods beyond the property in search of herbs for potions and small animals for pets. It worried my hypochondriac mother eternally, as I had always had a weak constitution and she saw every cough as an impending bout of plague, but the dark solitude of the forest called to me and I always answered, regardless of her concerns. Once, when I was roughly 7 years old, I managed to capture a small bluejay. I dashed back to my room with the creature and put it in a discarded owl cage, intending to keep it. Most of my pets had been small, wounded creatures that I would take back to test my rudimentary healing potions on. The ones who lived and recovered, I released back into the wild before my father found them. The rest, I gave a quiet ignominious burial in an unused portion of the garden.

This bluejay, though, was different. He was healthy and whole, and had no need of my fumbling forays into healing or poisoning. I had thought to tame him, train him to love me and accept me as his rightful owner, but it never worked. No matter what I did, the creature rejected my entreaties and seemed to think only of the freedom of which I'd robbed him. He refused food and I had to stun and forcibly extract him from his cage to force a water dropper into his beak to hydrate him. He hated me, I think. After a few weeks, he had taken to thrashing his wings against the bars of the cage in an attempt to escape. He did this so much that he'd soon worn away his feathers and the bars were reddened with his blood.

I should have released him—even as a child, I understood that. But I resented him. When I had first captured the bird, I had hoped to make myself a pet of him—a companion. Instead, the creature only despised me. I could not forgive him that. Three weeks after I had captured him, I returned from my private lessons one day to find him laying on the floor of his cage, dead, neck twisted at a curious angle. I could only surmise that he'd somehow injured himself attempting to escape. In a fit of pique I hurled the bird, cage and all, into the fire. It took weeks before the scent was fully gone from my chambers.

Father refused to let me charm it away. _"Some wild things cannot be tamed, boy. Remember that when next you see fit to take something that is not yours."_

My father was a bastard and I have spent my entire life proving him wrong. This will be no different. I will not tolerate anything less. You will twist as I desire or I will twist you until you break.

I will not give it up. Not ever.

I kiss you to seal it, soothing and biting you with the same motion.

I will not give it up.

I straddle you and watch your stir beneath me, fighting through layers of potion and an incense and ointment induced haze to come to the surface and the feelings I'm offering you. Take it. Choke on it. Because I won't give you up.

Twist for me. I won't give you up.

Your skin is soft and warm beneath my hands and you moan fitfully, the sound forcing my dichotomous feelings to melt into one solid _desire_. Moan for me. I won't give you up.

You gasp and open your eyes as I bite down roughly on a nipple and for a moment you shake your head roughly as though trying to make sense of the feel of my hands on you. I pull away and stare down at you. Your eyes are wide and unfocused. You don't even know where you are.

I can't help but sneer at you. I could do anything I want to you now. I could kill you. Your eyes shine dully in the moonlight. I could kill you.

Instead I lean in and gently kiss your chapped lips. You try to respond sluggishly, but don't know how. You're useless. I pull away and lay down heavily on your chest, suddenly exhausted. He won't take you from me. I have asked for nothing except for this, and no one will take it from me.

I exhale heavily and a shuddering breath leaves you as the air wafts over your chest. "Never, never, never, never, boy." I want to tear you apart. "I will not ever let you go."

I tilt my head back to watch you.

_"Some wild things cannot be tamed, boy."_

Vacant green eyes stare up at me and for a brief instant I think that you cannot possibly comprehend this moment beneath the influence of the room's magic and the potions. Then you smile at me, a soft, gentle Gryffindor smile that makes me feel as though I've swallowed a ball of raw cotton. So I reach up at an odd angle and cover those terribly green eyes with my hand until the butterfly flutter of lashes against my palm stills and you are sleeping once more. The throbbing thunder of your heart is loud in the still room. I listen to it for a long time.

No.

I won't give it up.

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Chapter Six:  
And He Went Forth Conquering and to Conquer

_"Please don't touch me." _

Coming soon (re: when I manage to complete it)

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	7. And He Went Forth Conquering

**_Thresh  
_**- Vain  
06.24.2004

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**Standard Disclaimer:  
**I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the quotes preceding the chapters come from Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. If you have not read it, take the time and do so. It is an . . . experience.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Voldemort can give Severus the one thing Dumbledore will not: an opportunity. What's a Slytherin to do?

_**Warnings:**_ SS/HP slash, disturbing themes, underaged-ness, violence, mature content, dubious consent, abuse of power over a minor, somnophilia, bondage, frottage, improper use of Potions, and dubious psychological torture.  
**Rated:** R (this is the edited version)

**_Notes:_** Takes place in the middle of Sixth Year.  
Snape is not a warm, fluffy, insipid sap in this: he is a nasty, sadistic, greasy, arrogant, ego-centric wanker. Welcome to the land of IC.  
This is absolutely, 100 un-related to any of my other fics.  
To facilitate updates, these chapters will be shorter than the chapters in some of my other fics.  
This story is also available on Skyehawke dot com.

**_Please read the warnings above before reading this chapter_.**

Special Thanks to my betas **Apapazukamori** and **E.E.S.** snugs V All remaining errors are my own.

This fic is UTERRLY A GIFT with much love to **EVELIA** who draws me pretty pictures.

Plagiarism is no one's friend.  
Enjoy!

  
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**Chapter Six:  
And He Went Forth Conquering and to Conquer**

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**

_""To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?" Marmeladov suddenly declaimed, standing up with his arms outstretched, as though he had been only waiting for that question._

_"Why am I to be pitied, you say? Yes! there's nothing to pity me for! I ought to be crucified, crucified on a cross, not pitied! Crucify me, oh judge, crucify me but pity me! And then I will go of myself to be crucified, for it's not merry-making I seek but tears and affliction! Do you suppose, you that sell, that this pint of yours has been sweet to me? It was affliction I sought at the bottom of it, tears and affliction, and have found it, and I have tasted it; but He will pity us Who has had pity on all men, Who has understood all men and all things, He is the One, He too is the judge. . . . And He will judge and will forgive all, the good and the evil, the wise and the meek. . . . And when He has done with all of them, then He will summon us. 'You too come forth,' He will say, 'Come forth ye drunkards, come forth, ye weak ones, come forth, ye children of shame!' And we shall all come forth, without shame and shall stand before him. And He will say unto us, 'Ye are swine, made in the Image of the Beast and with his mark; but come ye also!' And the wise ones and those of understanding will say, 'Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these men?' And He will say, '_This is why I receive them, oh ye wise, this is why I receive them, oh ye of understanding: because not one of them believed himself to be worthy of this._' And He will hold out His hands to us and we shall fall down before him . . . and we shall weep . . . and we shall understand all things! Then we shall understand all! . . . Lord, Thy kingdom come!" And he sank down on the bench exhausted, and helpless, looking at no one, apparently oblivious of his surroundings and plunged in deep thought. "_**

  
Fyodor Dostoevsky  
Crime and Punishment  


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**

_"If I can remove Harry Potter as a threat indefinitely, may I have him to do with as I please without any interference?" _

". . . You are in no position to bargain for anything, Sssseveruss . . . Not when your own status is so . . . contested_." _

"Forgive me my impertinence, my Lord. However, even with the support you've been gaining recently, you yourself have said that much remains uncertain while Potter is still unaccounted for."

"Perhaps. But you of all people should know that any Potter is best accounted for in a hole in the earth or a funeral pyre."

Dark eyes rose suddenly, an act of surprising daring. "In some cases, my Lord. Nonetheless, the boy's powers and talents are a resource that could potentially be exploited to great benefit."

"You truly are_ impertinent today, Severus. Potter—in all his foolhardy Gryffindor bravery—would die before accepting an alliance with me. Tell me why I should indulge your madness further." _

"Potter has been . . . misinformed, my Lord. He could be . . . 'corrected' with the proper guidance. Though strong, he lacks the discipline and skill to organize his abilities. It would not be overly difficult to 'adjust' his way of thinking, my Lord."

"And you so graciously offer yourself as his proctor?"

"His keeper, my Lord. Anything else, I should not presume."

There was a long moment of silence.

Then: "You are dismissed, Severus. I will be expecting a far more thorough report on that fool Dumbledore's actions when next I call you. Oh, and Severus? . . . Your impertinence can occasionally be quite endearing. Crucio!**

  
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**

_T_he touching started.

Or maybe it had started before and Harry just hadn't noticed. Things were different at Snape Hall. There was a set routine and they did not once, not _ever_ deviate from that routine. Once he had the big things down, it was easy to notice the small things. Like the touching.

In Harry's admittedly limited experience, Snape was not a tactile person. The man covered nearly every inch of his body in layers of the most imposing looking robes available. He intentionally skirted past people in the halls, leaving nothing tangible but the quiet snap of his robes and the scent of almonds in his wake. Watching him stride through the Great Hall was like watching the Red Sea part. If his foreboding expressions didn't put someone off, the air of thinly veiled violence certainly did the trick. Snape was . . . untouchable.

. . . Which was probably why it had taken Harry so long to notice.

They began to have dueling lessons every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning. Snape would stand behind him, so close that Harry almost choked on the man's overwhelming presence, and would put a hand on his hip to shift his stance. Or sometimes, standing at his ward's back, he would take Harry's right hand in his own and adjust the boy's grip on the wand. Occasionally, he did both at once.

The first time that happened, Harry's breath caught in his throat and he jerked away, only to stumble on his own robes and lose his balance. Snape caught him by the waist and jerked his backwards so that Harry ended up with his feet dangling an inch above the ground and his entire body pressed flush against that of his instructor. The heat from the Potions Master enveloped him in an almond-scented cloud and went straight to the Gryffindor's groin, making him gasp aloud at the almost painful tension suddenly strumming through him. And then Snape released him, barking some insult that Harry couldn't quite hear. The incident had left Harry dazed and breathless for the rest of the day.

In Arithmancy and Defense studies, the Professor would walk around his work area like a hawk circling prey, and the area of his pacing seemed to come closer and closer to the boy's chair everyday. Then there were the Potions lessons. Again, Snape would directly stand behind him, overwhelming his pupil with his body heat, and adjust the speed at which the teen stirred the cauldron, or bend down slightly to add an ingredient, his breath whispering over Harry's cheek as he did so. He always seemed to be behind the boy, just out of his ward's line of sight. Their proximity was such that, had Harry turned to confront the professor about something, their faces would have touched.

At times, laboring over a cauldron, or even alone in the Library during his free study periods, the idea would cross the Potter heir's mind and a slow, strange kind of shiver would move through him. The thought made him feel both slightly ill and overheated at the same time, as though he were fevered, and as time passed Snape's presence slowly became all-encompassing when they were together. The idea began to emerge more and more frequently, preying on Harry at strange moments and making him feel even more restless than he already was.

Every brush of contact made the boy feel hot and dizzy—like that time he had taken a great big swig of fire whiskey and almost passed out as a result. Even the near misses, those moments where Snape seemed a hair's breath from touching him, only to suddenly deviate, left the younger man almost gasping for air. His skin felt perpetually electrified, tight, and uncomfortable. Not even sleep was an escape. Harry's dreams were restless, vivid, and fleeting, and every day he woke up groggy, unrested, and bewildered. Even worse than these strange half-nightmares, however, were the waking memories of that terrible Dark Room Snape had put him in.

At times, walking down the hallway to the Blue Room for his lessons with Flicker perpetually in tow, the memory would come upon him all at once and he could literally _feel_ the pounding in his head once more and the cold, damp air, and his vision would go black and that horrid, clawing, _crawling_ feeling would resume. Each time, the air would thin and Harry would drop to his knees, unable to cry out as his treacherous mind forced him to relive the horror all over again. When the attacks came, Flicker would remain by his side, soothing him with House Elf magic until Snape arrived and force fed the boy a potion that would calm him.

The very first time this occurred, Harry awoke on the floor of the third floor hallway, sweating and panting and utterly ashamed to realize that his body had betrayed him in a panic and he'd soiled himself. Snape, however, merely took it in stride. Ignoring the boy's humiliation, he summoned Fiddle for a clean set of clothes, and taught his charge a special cleaning spell reserved for small children. Too embarrassed and confused to form the words, Harry had simply held still as the man cast the spell and allowed Flicker to shuffle him off to the third floor toilet. It was decorated with pink roses. The scent clung to the walls and made the boy nauseous.

Flicker remained silent as he helped the youth into a clean pair of slacks, his enormous blue eyes doleful.

Harry avoided the Elf's gaze. "Aren't you going to ask me what happened?"

Ever helpful, the servant buttoned the boy's pants and gently drew up the zipper as Harry's arms hung limply at his side. His small, nimble fingers clasped the belt buckle closed. "Master is not liking bad boys," he murmured sadly. His bat-like ears were almost flat on his head. "Flicker is telling Little Master. Little Master must be being a good boy from now on. Flicker is not wanting his Little Master to be going to the Dark Place again . . ."

And Harry nodded numbly, ignoring the tremor in his legs and the perfume and anxiety induced roiling of his stomach. He didn't want to go back to the Dark Place again, either. Ever. It had been without a doubt one of the most terrible moments of his life.

He'd do almost anything to never see that room again.

Almost anything.

Neither he nor Flicker mentioned the room again, nor did Snape make any reference to it. In Harry's mind, though, that somehow made it worse. The threat of another punishment in that place hung over him like the sword of Damocles and—combined with his almost perpetual anxiety and exhaustion—made him bite back his words and protests.

And thus Harry learned. Learned to go through the motions. Learned to not speak out or fight. Learned to relax his hand in place of clenching his fist. Learned to swallow the ache inside him.

It was hard lesson. Sometimes, he would bite his tongue or the inside of his cheek until he tasted the hot, coppery tang of blood. Other times, he would push the words down so hard, he felt as though he were choking on them.

It was as though his life were being bleached—like all the color and _reality_ of everything were being leached away. A thin, slippery film of gray seemed to coat the world and sometime Harry felt as though, if he reached out to touch something, it would simply ghost through his fingers like a three dimensional shadow. Nothing was solid. Nothing was tangible. Nothing seemed _real_ anymore. Harry felt disconnected and isolated and Hogwarts and his life seemed like a dream that some other person had had and shared one day over lunch. It seemed synthetic somehow, as though the harder he tried to grasp it, the more quickly it slid away. A part of him wanted to confront Snape about this, but every time he got near the man his head felt tight and overheated and he choked on the words.

He didn't _talk_ to Snape . . . not even to argue. In fact, he didn't really talk to anyone, really. Truth be told, he was terribly lonely. And very much alone.

In this manner the days dragged on for a week, and then two, each day passing more slowly than the last. Time smeared together into nothing more than a recycled routine. It stopped being Monday or Tuesday; instead becoming Dueling day or Potions day, or his favorite day of all: Free Day. Sunday. The day when he was free of Snape. The day when he could read what he wanted and was even allowed outside. The one day of the week he had to pretend that he was someone else somewhere else, far away from the Harry Potter who was locked in the White Tower of Snape Hall.

Occasionally it worked. He would forget himself in the woods that surrounded the Hall, losing himself among the strange plants and small, magical animals that inhabited the outer ring of the forest. He came to live for those day and looked forward to them all week. The peace and clarity they instilled in his was almost enough to carry him into the next day.

Until Snape touched him.

The hand on his hip. The brush of their fingers as Snape gripped him. The sheer _heat_ the other man radiated . . . It was terrible. It was distracting. It was humiliating. It was . . . arousing.

He hated it. He hated Snape and Snape Hall, but he hated the touching the most. And he really hated the fact that he was starting to like it. _Crave_ it, even. Deprived of even a moment's privacy to masturbate without Flicker or Snape there to see him, and lacking the company of any other human being, Snape's touches were like fire. Harry's knees would tremble slightly, and his mouth would become inexplicably dry, and his belly would quiver.

It was mortifying.

He tried to tell himself that it was a normal reaction. After all, he _was_ a teenage boy. He had . . . urges, just like anyone else. But it didn't change the reality of the situation. It _Snape_, for Merlin's sake! That nose. Those teeth. Those filthy, long, thin, stained fingers . . . The man's body burnt like a furnace and his personality was more twisted than a pretzel.

But it felt _good_.

So good . . .

And sometimes, when those beetle black eyes were locked on his and the scent of almonds was so powerful that he couldn't breath, the air thickened between them and he couldn't help but wonder if maybe . . . just _maybe_ . . . Snape thought that _he_ felt good, too.

The situation was intolerable and seemed to worsen each day. Things simply could not continue like this. It was no surprise then, when the Harry reached his breaking point one day during dueling. In retrospect, the Gryffindor would look back and say that it wasn't his fault, but it was useless to place blame. It happened and the bell could not be un-rung.

It was muggy on that day. Even in the atmosphere-controlled Manor the air seemed a bit stickier than usual. Then tension had been worse than usual. Snape had moved his Potions class to the morning and pushed dueling back to immediately after the Potions lesson. The result was that Harry ended up spending half the morning half hard and frustrated. By the time dueling came around, he felt as though he were going to lose his mind if he couldn't do something soon. He was hopelessly distracted, which was probably why Snape was so sharp about correcting him.

His stance was off and his wrist was weak and wavering. In a real duel, he probably would have been killed. The Potion's Master stepped close to him from behind and slid his right leg between Harry's parted legs in such a way that the boy was practically _sitting_ on Snape's thigh. Strong hands grabbed Harry's hips, jerking him slightly to adjust his dueling stance—_"Like **this**, you idiot boy!"_—and Harry's knees suddenly gave way.

The teen fell back into Snape, supported only by the solid reality of Snape's thigh between his legs and those hot, hot, long-fingered hands gripping his hips with painful force. The smell of almonds choked him and his eyes teared up as that smoke and liquor voice was next to his cheek, puff after citrus scented puff of breath grazing his ear and cheek as harsh, incomprehensible words were spoken in his ear. A very quiet moan slipped from Harry's lips and the boy was instantly, painfully hard.

And then the hands and the leg and the breath and Snape were gone, sending Harry crashing to the floor in a flushed and aroused heap. Never in his life had he been more grateful for wizarding robes. He was so hard, it _hurt_.

The swaying hem of Snape's black robes appeared in his line of vision and the boy squirmed painfully. The pressure of his pant zipper restraining his erection was so maddening that tears welled up in his eyes. If it hadn't been so painful, he would have simply died of embarrassment.

"What has gotten into you today, boy?" The man sounded angry.

Harry squeezed his eyes tightly shut behind his thick glasses and shook his head almost frantically to avoid explaining himself. His lips were slightly parted and he licked at the insides of his lips and cheeks because he inexplicably _craved_ the sensation of having something solid in his mouth.

And Snape was stepping even closer now and Harry knew it because he could _smell_ his caretaker in the tiny space between them and the realization made the boy both hot and cold at once.

The cold contempt in the man's voice was almost enough to overpower his body heat. "Answer me, Potter!"

Another shake of the head. Harry's hands fluttered up helplessly, both desperate to touch himself and desperate not to touch himself as weeks of pent up arousal and frustration and rage boiled over into a strange white hot need that made him bite his own tongue to hold back a wanton moan.

"Do you want another punishment?"

If a fission of pure terror hadn't flashed through him, the low, smoky words might have been enough to make Harry come. Instead, a violent shiver wracked the youth, agitating his arousal even more, and he shook his head again. It was too much. Entirely too much. He didn't dare face the man.

The words broke free of him in a choked whisper and he felt as though he were losing something dear. "Please don't touch me."

_Please don't touch . . ._

The scent of almond was suffocating as Snape dropped down to a relaxed crouch in front of him and a hand suddenly gripped Harry's chin painfully, forcing the boy's head up. Unable to bear the darkness any longer, Harry opened his eyes.

Snape was staring at him with an almost crazed expression, dark eyes enormous and gleaming like those of a predator. Harry's chest heaved as though to cry out, but somehow all that happened was his hips jerked slightly forward as Snape pulled his chin up even higher, forcing the boy into a kneeling position so that they were nearly eyelevel.

Harry was beyond coherence. "Please don't touch me," he whimpered in a barely audible mantra. Flashed of half remembered dreams danced on the edge of his awareness and the memory of phantom hands moving over his body made him jerk madly like a windblown leaf. ". . . don't touch . . ."

Snape smiled and it was hideous, his face seeming to split open with the expression. "Don't touch?"

Harry's hands suddenly flew to his lap and he was almost blinded by the tears gathering in his eyes and the fog forming on his glasses.

The Potions Master's left hand snaked out, easily ensnaring both of his ward's hands in his large grip and holding those thin wrists painfully. But his hold on Harry's chin remained firm and gentle, neither hurting nor yielding, merely controlling.

"Don't touch?" the professor repeated in a frighteningly dark voice. His right pointer finger gently glided over the swell of Harry's left cheek. "Like this?"

This time, the moan broke free and the Gryffindor leaned forward into the stroke, hips involuntarily surging up.

Snape responded by pressing the boy's captured wrists down directly onto the youth's tented trousers, forcing the boy's hips back. Harry almost wailed at the resulting sensation.

Snape's breath puffed over Harry's face, forcing his ward to inhale the scent, and he was so close and his voice was so low . . . "Like this?" And he used his grip on the boy's trembling wrists to force his captive's bundled hands and wrists to rub in slow, even circles over the area of the boy's erection. Harry whined, flushed face twisting in what looked like pain.

His lips parted in an aborted cry and then Snape was there, a sallow cheek pressed against Harry's own as the man softly whispered: "Or like _this_ . . . ?" And then a thumb slipped over from Harry's right cheek and into his mouth, pressing down hard on the youth's tongue, almost gagging him.

_Don'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouch . . ._

The boy's mouth closed instantly, the vibration of some animalistic noise moving through him, and he tried to both chew and suck on the bitter tasting digit between his jaws but couldn't quite manage to focus on either. Saliva slicked his lips and the older man's other hand pushed down hard against his jean-clad erection, making his hips dance and surge. The Gryffindor twisted miserably, desperately seeking more friction than the pressure of Snape forcing his hips back or making him rub his bound wrists against himself. His chin was wet and his entire body shook and sweat soaked him and Snape seemed to be everywhere, panting lightly in his ear and whispering: _"Just let me . . . Just . . . Just let me . . ."_ And Harry wanted to shake his head, but that thumb was in his mouth, and the man was pressing so hard against his erection, and it was so unbearably hot . . .

_Don'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon't—_

Harry tossed his head back suddenly, Snape's thumb slipping from his mouth with a wet _'pop'_ and the teen back arced slightly as the man pushed down _hard_, earning a single choked cry of both pain and need before the boy came, lithe body jerking almost spastically.

A hot, wet stain spread almost instantly along the front of Harry's trousers and the professor released him entirely, allowing the spent teenager to fall gracelessly onto the floor, glasses hopelessly askew and cries still straggling out of his throat as his hips shook ever so slightly with the end of his release. Snape's knees gave out and the man dropped all the way to the ground, breathing heavily as he watched the flushed, gasping youth on the floor.

For a long time neither of them spoke.

Harry was the first to move, slowly drawing his legs up to his chest in a fetal position, eyes squeezed tightly shut as tremors crept through his wiry frame. Snape remained seated awkwardly on the floor, either unwilling or unable to move.

Finally Snape spoke, his voice loud in the quiet of the room. His dark eyes bore into his ward painfully and his voice was colder and more distant than Harry had ever before known. "Is this what you've been after?" He sneered. "The _Great_ Harry Potter. You are like an animal—rutting against anything available."

Harry flinched as though struck and drew his legs up tighter, almost as though trying to hide. Snape pushed himself up and his knees popped loudly in the still room. He drew his wand and pointed it at the boy, face impassive.

Surprisingly, this time his voice was free of contempt. "Do you want me to take this all away? Do you want me to make it better?"

Harry pulled into himself even more, trying to make himself as small as possible. A strange, whispery noise left the boy in an even rhythm, but the sound was too faint to be heard.

"Do you want me to take it away?" his guardian repeated when there was no reply, wand still pointed at the boy.

Again, that strange, whispery noise. Snape's dark eyes narrowed and he leaned closer until could faintly make out a tiny plea: "_Don'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouch . . ._"

His wand hand dropped heavily to his side and he stared down at the boy for a moment.

"_Don'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouchdon'ttouch . . ._"

Then he turned and left Harry trembling and alone on the floor, tears of shame, fear and confusion streaming down the boy's hidden face.

  
**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Snape did not make his presence known for the rest of the day and—after the Master of the Hall had departed—Flicker sat silently by the boy for several hours as the young man lay limp on the floor. When Harry finally had the strength to rise and stagger back to the White Room, the Elf attended to him in patient, supportive silence, running his charge a hot bath and summoning a light supper of porridge, weak tea laced with potion, fruit, and lightly sweetened biscuits when evening fell. The young man accepted it all wordlessly, preferring to spend the evening curled up in the window seat of his room and stare out at the forest with vacant, distant eyes.

It was just as well.

According to Fetch, Master Snape had flown into a rage downstairs in his workroom and destroyed everything he could get his hands on. Flicker had grown intensely fond of his Little Master and had no desire to see the boy on the receiving end of the fearsome Snape temper. It was a relief when he could finally tuck his shell shocked human into bed without incident. The potions put the little human right to sleep and it was not until the lines of pain and hurt were fully smoothed from the child's forehead that the Elf was fully relaxed.

It hurt the servant to see his master in pain, but there was little he could do about it. If only the boy would stop trying to be so defiant . . . Perhaps it was a common trait in human young, though. Master Snape had been rebellious at this age and _his_ father had disciplined him quite often. Master Snape had been put in the Dark Place at least once a week for years . . . sometimes even when he hadn't been naughty. And Master Snape was a kind and wonderful master. Flicker _loved_ Master Snape. Compared with Master Snape's stormy adolescence, the Little Master was actually a very, very good boy.

Flicker reminded himself of this as he put more of the special potion that the Master had made into the censers around his charge's room. Master Harry just had to learn how to behave. Once he understood the way things were and that he belonged to Master Snape now, everything would be fine. And then the Little Master would stay at Snape Hall forever and Flicker could always serve him. That was what the Master had promised and that was what Flicker wanted. He would not give up his Little Master willingly. None of the Elves would. Harry Potter belonged here now. With them. Always.

When Master Severus quietly entered the boy's room later on in the night and climbed into bed with the sleeping youth, the Elf remained quiet, slipping into the shadows without a sound. As he always did, Flicker remained perfectly silent when his Master divested the Little Master of his clothing, and pet and kissed the teen until those green eyes opened blurrily and watched the man without a trace of comprehension. The Master whispered apologies and promises and licked at the smaller human's pebbled nipples and bit lightly at his neck and told him that he had tried to control himself and it really was all Harry's fault for pushing him like that.

It was actually fascinating to see. Flicker had never before heard Master apologize. He had never seen the Master look so sad or weary. The Little Master would be good for Master Snape. Even if Flickered had questioned that once, the Master's nightly visits to the White Room had been enough to convince the Elf otherwise. Gentleness and care marked the Master's every move, from the way his hands moved over the Little Master's body to the way the Master took the smaller human's secret part into his mouth. And when they were done, he always held the boy, petting and soothing him until sleep returned.

It had been a long time since light and life had been brought to Snape Hall. Flicker was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that Harry Potter would be the one to bring that all back. It would just take the boy a bit to adjust.

When Master Snape left, he gently patted Flicker's head and whispered, "Look after him."

The Elf nodded dutifully as the heavy oak door opened and closed. He would look after the Little Master. Always. He would protect the Little Master with his very life and in doing so would protect all of Snape Hall. They needed the boy now. The Master needed the boy.

And a House Elf always served his Master.

  
**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o **

_"What is happening to me!"  
_  
- Coming as soon as I finish it. Promise.

  
**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**


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